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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:53:15 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:53:15 -0700 |
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diff --git a/18400-h/18400-h.htm b/18400-h/18400-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..628d1d6 --- /dev/null +++ b/18400-h/18400-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9898 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Isopel Berners</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Isopel Berners, by George Borrow</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Isopel Berners, by George Borrow, Edited by +Thomas Seccombe + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Isopel Berners + The History of certain doings in a Staffordshire Dingle, July, 1825 + + +Author: George Borrow + +Editor: Thomas Seccombe + +Release Date: May 16, 2006 [eBook #18400] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ISOPEL BERNERS*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1901 Hodder and Stoughton edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>ISOPEL BERNERS</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by</span><br /> +GEORGE BORROW</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The History of certain doings in a +Staffordshire Dingle, July, 1825: An Episode in the Autobiography of +George Borrow</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">the text edited with</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">introduction & notes by</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">THOMAS SECCOMBE</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">author of “the age of johnson”</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">assistant editor of the dictionary</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">of national biography</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">london: hodder and +stoughton</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">27 paternoster row</span><br /> +1901</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><!-- page ii--><a name="pageii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. ii</span><i>Printed +by Hazell</i>, <i>Watson & Viney</i>, <i>Ld.</i>, <i>London and +Aylesbury</i>.</p> +<h2><!-- page 1--><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>INTRODUCTION.</h2> +<h3>I.</h3> +<p>The last century was yet in its infancy when the author of <i>The +Romany Rye</i> first saw the light in the sleepy little East Anglian +township of East Dereham, in the county distinguished by Borrow as the +one in which the people eat the best dumplings in the world and speak +the purest English. “Pretty quiet D[ereham]” was the +retreat in those days of a Lady Bountiful in the person of Dame Eleanor +Fenn, relict of the worthy editor of the <i>Paston Letters</i>. +It is better known in literary history as the last resting-place of +a sad and unquiet spirit, escaped from a world in which it had known +nought but sorrow, of “England’s sweetest and most pious +bard,” William Cowper. But Destiny was weaving a robuster +thread to connect East Dereham with literature, for George Borrow <a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1">{1}</a> +was born there on July 5th, 1803, and, nomad though he was, the place +was always dear to his heart as his earliest home.</p> +<p>In 1816, after ramblings far and wide both in Ireland and in Scotland, +the Borrows settled in Norwich, where George was schooled under a master +whose name at <!-- page 2--><a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>least +is still familiar to English youth, Dr. Valpy (brother of Dr. Richard +Valpy). Among his schoolfellows at the grammar school were Rajah +Brooke and Dr. James Martineau. George Borrow, a hardened truant +from his earliest teens, was once horsed, to undergo a flogging, on +the back of James Martineau, and he never afterwards took kindly to +the philosophy of that remarkable man. We are glad to know that +Edward Valpy’s ferule was weak, though his scholarship was strong. +Stories were current that even in those days George used to haunt the +gipsy tents on that Mousehold Heath which lives eternally in the breezy +canvases of “Old Crome,” and that he went so far as to stain +his face with walnut-juice to the right Egyptian hue. “Are +you suffering from jaundice, Borrow,” asked the Doctor, “or +is it merely dirt?” While at Norwich, too, he was greatly +influenced in the direction of linguistics by the English “pocket +Goethe,” William Taylor, the head of a clan known as the Taylors +of Norwich, to distinguish them from a race in which the principle of +heredity was even more strikingly developed—the Taylors of Ongar. +In February 1824 his father, the gallant Captain Thomas Borrow, died, +and his articles in the firm of a Norwich solicitor having determined, +George went to London to commence literary man, in the old sense of +the servitude, under the well-known bookseller-publisher, Sir Richard +Phillipps. In Grub Street he translated and compiled galore, but +when the trees began to shoot in 1825 he broke his chain and escaped +to the country, to the dingle, and to Isopel Berners.</p> +<p><!-- page 3--><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>To +dwell upon the bare outlines of Borrow’s early career would be +a superfluously dull proceeding. We shall only add a few names +and dates to the framework, supplied with a fidelity that is rare in +much more formal works of autobiography, in the pages of <i>Lavengro</i>. +From the same pages we may detach just a few of the earlier influences +which went to make up the rare and complex individuality of the writer. +Borrow’s father, a fine old soldier, in revealing his son’s +youthful idiosyncrasy, projects a clear mental image of his own habit +of mind. “The boy had the impertinence to say the classics +were much over-valued, and amongst other things that some horrid fellow +or other, some Welshman, I think (thank God it was not an Irishman), +was a better poet than Ovid. <a name="citation2"></a><a href="#footnote2">{2}</a> +That a boy of his years should entertain an opinion of his own, I mean +one which militates against all established authority, is astonishing. +As well might a raw recruit pretend to offer an unfavourable opinion +on the manual and platoon exercise. The idea is preposterous; +the lad is too independent by half.”</p> +<p>Borrow’s account of his father’s death is a highly affecting +piece of English. The ironical humour blent with pathos in his +picture of this ill-rewarded old disciplinarian (who combined a tenderness +of heart with a fondness for military metaphor that frequently reminds +one of “My Uncle Toby”), the details of the ailments and +the portents that attended his infantile career, and, <!-- page 4--><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>above +all, the glimpses of the wandering military life from barrack to barrack +and from garrison to garrison, inevitably remind the reader of the childish +reminiscences of Laurence Sterne, a writer to whom it may thus early +be said that George Borrow paid no small amount of unconscious homage. +A homage of another sort, fully recognised and declared, was that paid +to the great work of Defoe, and to the spirit of strange and romantic +enterprise which it aroused in its reader.</p> +<p>After <i>Robinson Crusoe</i> there played across the disk of his +youthful memory a number of weird and hairy figures never to be effaced. +A strange old herbalist and snake-killer with a skin cap first whetted +his appetite for the captivating confidences of roadside vagrants, and +the acquaintanceship serves as an introduction to the scene of the gipsy +encampment, where the young Sapengro or serpent charmer was first claimed +as brother by Jasper Petulengro. The picture of the encampment +may serve as an example of Borrovian prose, nervous, unembarrassed, +and graphic.</p> +<blockquote><p>One day it happened, being on my rambles, I entered a +green lane which I had never seen before. At first it was rather +narrow, but as I advanced it became considerably wider. In the +middle was a drift-way with deep ruts, but right and left was a space +carpeted with a sward of trefoil and clover. There was no lack +of trees, chiefly ancient oaks, which, flinging out their arms from +either side, nearly formed a canopy and afforded a pleasing shelter +from the rays of the sun, which was burning fiercely above. Suddenly +a group of objects attracted my attention. Beneath one of the +largest of the trees, upon the grass, was a kind of low <!-- page 5--><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>tent +or booth, from the top of which a thin smoke was curling. Beside +it stood a couple of light carts, whilst two or three lean horses or +ponies were cropping the herbage which was growing nigh. . . .</p> +</blockquote> +<p>As a pendant to the landscape take a Flemish interior. The +home of the Borrows had been removed in the meantime, in accordance +with the roving traditions of the family, from Norman Cross to Edinburgh +and from Edinburgh to Clonmel.</p> +<blockquote><p>And to the school I went [at Clonmel], where I read the +Latin tongue and the Greek letters with a nice old clergyman who sat +behind a black oaken desk with a huge Elzevir Flaccus before him, in +a long gloomy kind of hall with a broken stone floor, the roof festooned +with cobwebs, the walls considerably dilapidated and covered over with +stray figures in hieroglyphics evidently produced by the application +of a burnt stick.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In Ireland, too, he made the acquaintance of the gossoon Murtagh, +who taught him Irish in return for a pack of cards. In the course +of his wanderings with his father’s regiment he develops into +a well-grown and well-favoured lad, a shrewd walker and a bold rider. +“People may talk of first love—it is a very agreeable event, +I dare say—but give me the flush, the triumph, and glorious sweat +of a first ride.” <a name="citation5"></a><a href="#footnote5">{5}</a></p> +<p>At Norwich he learns modern languages from an old <i>emigré</i>, +a true disciple of the <i>ancien cour</i>, who sets Boileau high above +Dante; and some misty German <!-- page 6--><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>metaphysics +from the Norwich philosopher, who consistently seeks a solace in smoke +from the troubles of life. His father had already noted his tendency +to fly off at a tangent which was strikingly exhibited in the lawyer’s +office, where “within the womb of a lofty deal desk,” when +he should have been imbibing Blackstone and transcribing legal documents, +he was studying Monsieur Vidocq and translating the Welsh bard Ab Gwilym; +he was consigning his legal career to an early grave when he wrote this +elegy on the worthy attorney his master.</p> +<blockquote><p>He has long since sunk to his place in a respectable +vault, in the aisle of a very respectable church, whilst an exceedingly +respectable marble slab against the neighbouring wall tells on a Sunday +some eye wandering from its prayer-book that his dust lies below. +To secure such respectabilities in death he passed a most respectable +life, a more respectable-looking individual never was seen.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In the meantime as a sequel to his questionings on the subjects of +reality and truth, the Author was asking himself “What is death?” +and the query serves as a prelude to the first of the many breezy dialogues +with that gipsy cousin-german to Autolycus, Jasper Petulengro.</p> +<blockquote><p>“What is your opinion of death, Mr. Petulengro?”</p> +<p>“My opinion of death, brother, is much the same as that in +the old song of Pharaoh . . . when a man dies he is cast into the earth +and his wife and child sorrow over him. If he has neither wife +nor child, then his father and mother, I suppose; and if he is quite +alone in the world, <!-- page 7--><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>why, +then he is cast into the earth and there is an end of the matter.”</p> +<p>“And do you think that is the end of man?”</p> +<p>“There’s an end of him, brother, more’s the pity.”</p> +<p>“Why do you say so?”</p> +<p>“Life is sweet, brother.”</p> +<p>“Do you think so?”</p> +<p>“Think so! there’s night and day, brother, both sweet +things; sun, moon and stars, brother, all sweet things; there’s +likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother: who +would wish to die?”</p> +<p>“I would wish to die.”</p> +<p>“You talk like a gorgio—which is the same as talking +like a fool; were you a Romany chal you would talk wiser. Wish +to die, indeed! a Romany chal would wish to live for ever.”</p> +<p>“In sickness, Jasper?”</p> +<p>“There’s the sun and stars, brother.”</p> +<p>“In blindness, Jasper?”</p> +<p>“There’s the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only +feel that I would gladly live for ever. Dæta, we’ll +now go to the tents and put on the gloves, and I’ll try to make +you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Leaving Norwich and his legal trammels, a few weeks after his father’s +death, in 1824, Lavengro reaches London—the scene of Grub Street +struggles not greatly relaxed in severity since the days of Newbery, +Gardener and Christopher Smart. As the genius of Hawthorne was +cooped up and enslaved for the American “Peter Parley,” +so that of Borrow was hag-ridden by a bookseller publisher of an even +worse type, the radical alderman and philanthropic sweater, Sir Richard +<!-- page 8--><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>Phillipps. +For this stony-hearted faddist he covered reams of paper with printers’ +copy; and we are told that the kind of compilation that he liked (and +probably executed) best was that of <i>Newgate Lives and Trials</i>. +He had well-nigh reached the end of his tether when he had the conversation +with Phillipps’s head factotum, Taggart, which we cite below and +recommend feelingly to the consideration of every literary aspirant. +Sordid and commonplace enough are the details; simple and free from +every kind of inflation the language in which they are narrated. +Yet how picturesque are these vignettes of London life! How vivid +and yet how strange are the figures that animate them! The harsh +literary impresario with his “drug in the market,” who seems +to have stalked straight out of Smollett, <a name="citation8"></a><a href="#footnote8">{8}</a> +the gnarled old applewoman, with every wrinkle shown, on her stall upon +London Bridge, the grasping Armenian merchant who softened at the sound +of his native tongue, the giddy young spendthrift Francis Ardry and +the confiding young creature who had permitted him to hire her a very +handsome floor in the West End, the gipsies and thimble-riggers in Greenwich +Park—what moving and lifelike figures are these, stippled in with +a seeming absence of art, yet as strange and as rare as a Night in Bagdad, +a chapter of Balzac, or the most fantastic scene in the <i>New Arabian +Nights</i>.</p> +<p>This brief recapitulation—in which it has been <!-- page 9--><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>possible +but just to touch upon a few of the inner springs of Borrow’s +life as revealed in the autobiographical <i>Lavengro</i>—brings +us once again to that spring day in 1825—May 20th—when the +author disposed of an unidentifiable manuscript for the sumptuous equivalent +of £20. On May 22nd, after little more than a year’s +residence in London, he abandons the city. From London he proceeds +to Amesbury, in Wiltshire, which he reaches on May 23rd; visits Stonehenge, +the Roman Camp of Old Sarum and Salisbury; on May 26th he leaves Salisbury, +and (after an encounter with the long-lost son of the old applewoman, +returned from Botany Bay), strikes north-west. On the 30th he +has been walking four days in a northerly direction, when he arrives +at the inn where the maid Jenny refreshes him at the pump, and he meets +the author with whom he passes the night. On the 31st he purchases +the horse and cart of Jack Slingsby, whom he had previously seen but +once, at Tamworth, many years ago when he was little more than a child. +On June 1st he makes the first practical experience of a vagrant’s +life, and passes the night in the open air in a Shropshire dell; on +June 5th he is visited by Leonora Herne, the grandchild of the old “brimstone +hag” who was jealous of the cordiality with which the young stranger +had been received by the Petulengroes and initiated in the secrets of +their gipsy tribe. Three days later, betrayed to the old woman +by Leonora, he is drabbed (<i>i.e.</i> poisoned) with the manricli or +doctored cake of Mrs. Herne; his life is in imminent danger, but he +is <!-- page 10--><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>saved +by the opportune arrival of Peter Williams. He passes Sunday, +June 12th, with the Welsh preacher and his wife Winifred; on the 21st +he departs with his itinerant hosts to the Welsh border. Before +entering Wales, however, he turns back with Ambrose (“Jasper”) +Petulengro and settles with his own stock-in-trade as tinker and blacksmith +at the foot of the dingle hard by Mumper’s Lane, near Willenhall, +in Staffordshire; here at the end of June 1825 takes place the classical +encounter between the philologer and the flaming tinman—all this, +is it not related in <i>Lavengro</i>, and substantiated with much hard +labour of facts and dates by Dr. W. I. Knapp in his exhaustive biography +of George Borrow? The allurement of his genius is such that the +etymologist shall leave his roots and the philologer his Maeso-Gothic +to take to the highway and dwell in the dingle with “Don Jorge.”</p> +<p>Lavengro’s triumph over the flaming tinman is the prelude to +what Professor Saintsbury justly calls “the miraculous episode +of Ysopel Berners,” and the narrative of the author’s life +is thence continued, with many digressions, but with a remarkable fidelity +to fact as far as the main issue is concerned, until the narrative, +though not the life-story of the author, abruptly terminates at Horncastle, +in August 1825. There follows what is spoken of as the veiled +period of Borrow’s life, from 1826 to 1833.</p> +<p>The years in which we drift are generally veiled from posterity. +The system of psychometry carried to such perfection by Obermann and +Amiel could at no time <!-- page 11--><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>have +been exactly congenial to Borrow, who spoke of himself at this period +as “digging holes in the sand and filling them up again.” +Roughly speaking, the years appear to have been spent comparatively +uneventfully, for the most part in Norfolk. In December 1832 he +walked to London to interview the British and Foreign Bible Society, +covering a hundred and twelve miles in twenty-seven hours on less than +sixpennyworth of food and drink. He was thirty years old at the +time, and the achievement was the pride of his remaining years. +Six months later, on the strength of his linguistic attainments, he +managed to get on the paid staff of the Society, to the bewilderment +of Norwich “friends,” who were inclined to be ironical on +the subject of the transformation of the chum of hanged Thurtell and +the disciple of godless Billy Taylor into a Bible missionary. +In July 1833, then, Borrow sets out on his Eastern travels as the accredited +agent of the Bible Society, goes to St. Petersburg, “the finest +city in the world,” and obtains the Russian imprimatur for a Manchu +version of that suspicious novelty, the Bible. He carried this +scheme into execution to the general satisfaction, and he returns to +London in 1837; then to the south of Europe, whence he reappears, larger +than life and twice as natural, in his masterly autobiographical romance +of <i>The Bible in Spain</i>, the work which made his name, which was +sold by thousands, which was eagerly acclaimed as an invaluable addition +to “Sunday” literature, and pirated in a generous spirit +of emulation by American publishers.</p> +<p><!-- page 12--><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>We +are now come to the circumstance of the composition of <i>Lavengro</i>. +<i>The Bible in Spain</i>, when it appeared in 1843, implied a wonderful +background to the Author’s experience, a career diversified by +all kinds of wild adventures, “sorcery, Jews, Gentiles, rambles,” +gipsies, prisons,—what you will. <a name="citation12"></a><a href="#footnote12">{12}</a></p> +<p>The personal element in the book—so suggestive of mystery and +romance—excited the strongest curiosity. Apart from this, +however, the reading public of 1843 were not unnaturally startled by +a book which seemed to profess to be a good, serious, missionary work, +but for which it was manifest that <i>Gil Blas</i> and not Bishop Heber +had been taken as a model. Not that any single comparison of the +kind can convey the least idea of the complex idiosyncrasy of such a +work. There is a substratum of <i>Guide Book</i> and <i>Gil Blas</i>, +no doubt, but there are unmistakable streaks of Defoe, of Dumas, and +of Dickens, with all his native prejudices and insular predilections +strong upon him. A narrative so wide awake amidst a vagrant population +of questionable morals and alien race suggests an affinity with <i>Hajji +Baba</i> (a close kinsman, we conceive, of the Borrovian picaro). +But, above all, as one follows the author through the mazes of his book, +one is conscious of two strangely <!-- page 13--><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>assorted +figures, never far from the itinerant’s side, and always ready +to improve the occasion if a shadow of an opportunity be afforded. +One, who is prolific of philological chippings, might be compared to +a semblance of Max Müller; while the other, alternately denouncing +the wickedness and deriding the toothlessness of a grim Giant Pope, +may be likened, at a distance, to John Bunyan. About the whole—to +conclude—is an atmosphere, not too pronounced, of the <i>Newgate +Calendar</i>, and a few patches of sawdust from the Prize Ring. +May not people well have wondered (the good pious English folk to whom +<i>Luck</i> is a scandal, as the Bible Society’s secretary wrote +to Borrow),—what manner of man is this, this muleteer-missionary, +this natural man with a pen in the hand of a prize-fighter, but of a +prize-fighter who is afflicted with the fads of a philologer—and +a pedant at that? The surprise may be compared to what that of +a previous generation would have been, had it seen Johnson and Boswell +and Baretti all fused into one man. The incongruity is heightened +by familiarity with Borrow’s tall, blonde, Scandinavian figure, +and the reader is reminded of those roving Northmen of the days of simple +mediæval devotion, who were wont to signalise their conversion +from heathen darkness by a Mediterranean venture, combining the characters +of a piratical cruise and a pious pilgrimage.</p> +<p>That Curiosity exaggerated and was a marvel-monger we shall attempt +to demonstrate. But, in the meantime, it was there, and it was +very strong. As for Borrow, he was prepared to derive stimulus +from it just as long <!-- page 14--><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>as +it maintained the unquestioning attitude of Jasper Petulengro when he +expressed the sentiments of gipsydom in the well-worn “Lor’, +brother, how learned you are!”</p> +<p>In February 1843 Borrow wrote to Murray that he had begun his <i>Life</i>—a +“kind of biography in the Robinson Crusoe style,”—and +was determined that it should surpass anything that he had already written. +It had been contemplated, he added, for some months already, as a possible +sequel to the <i>Bible in Spain</i> if that proved successful. +Hitherto, he wrote, the public had said “Good” (to his <i>Gypsies +of Spain</i>, 1841), “Better” (to the <i>Bible in Spain</i>), +and he wanted it, when No. 3 appeared, to say “Best.” +Five years rapidly passed away, until, in the summer of 1848, the book +was announced as about to appear shortly, under the title of <i>Lavengro: +An Autobiography</i>, which was soon changed to <i>Life: a Drama</i>. +The difficulty of writing a book which should have “no humbug +in it,” proved, as may well be supposed, immense, and would in +any case be quite sufficient to account for the long period of gestation. +His perplexities may have often been very near akin to those ascribed +to the superstitious author in the sixty-fifth chapter of <i>Lavengro</i>; +his desire to be original sadly cramping the powers of his mind, his +fastidiousness being so great that he invariably rejected whatever ideas +he did not consider to be legitimately his own. As a substitute +for the usual padding of humbug, sycophancy and second-hand ideas, he +bethought himself of philology, and he set himself <!-- page 15--><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>to +spring fragments of philological instruction (often far from sound) +upon his reader in the most unexpected places, that his ingenuity could +devise. He then began to base hopes upon the book in proportion +to its originality. At the last moment, however, the Author grew +querulous about his work, distrustful of the reception that would be +given to it, and even as to the advisability of producing it at all. +Much yet remained to be done, but for a long time he refused, not only +to forward new copy to Albemarle Street, but even to revise the proofs +of that which he had already written, and it required all the dunning +that Murray and the printer Woodfall dare apply before <i>Lavengro</i> +with its altered sub-title (for at the last moment Borrow grew afraid +of openly avowing his identity with the speaking likeness which he had +created) could be announced as “just ready” in the <i>Athenæum</i> +of Dec. 14th, 1850.</p> +<p><i>Lavengro; the Scholar</i>, <i>the Gypsy</i>, <i>the Priest</i>, +eventually appeared in three volumes on Feb. 7th, 1851. The autobiographical +<i>Lavengro</i> stopped short in July 1825, at the conclusion of the +hundredth chapter, with an abruptness worthy of the <i>Sentimental Journey</i>. +The Author had succeeded in extending the area of mystery, but not in +satisfying the public. Borrow’s confidences were so very +different in complexion from those which the critics seemed to have +expected, that they were taken aback and declared to the public almost +with one accord that the writer’s eccentricities had developed +into mannerisms, that his theories of life were political manifestoes, +that his dialects were gibberish, and his <!-- page 16--><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>defiance +of the orthodox canons of autobiography scarcely less than an outrage +upon the public taste.</p> +<p>From the general public came a fusillade of requests to solve the +prevailing mystery of the book. Was it fact or fiction?—or, +if fact and fiction were blended, in what proportions? Borrow +ought to have been prepared for a question so natural in the mouths +of literary busy-bodies at any time, and especially at a time when partisan +spirit was rampant, and the vitality of the lampoon as a factor in politics +so far from extinct. To show his contempt alike for the critical +verdict and the popular curiosity, after a quarrel, or at least a sharp +coolness with John Murray, he published in two volumes, in May 1857, +<i>The Romany Rye</i>, which carries on the story of <i>Lavengro</i> +for just about a month further, namely, down towards the end of August +1825, and there again stops dead. Whether we regard coherence +or the rate of progress, no more attempt at amendment is perceptible +than can be discerned in the later as compared with the earlier volumes +of <i>Tristram Shandy</i>. The peculiarities of the earlier volume +are, indeed, here accentuated, while the Author had evidently only been +confirmed by the lapse of years in the political philosophy to which +he had already given expression. At the end was printed an appendix +(a sort of <i>catalogue raisonné</i> of Borrovian prejudices), +satirising with unmeasured bitterness the critics of <i>Lavengro</i>.</p> +<p>The resumption of a story after an interval of over six years, with +appendages so extravagant, whether we regard their tenor or their length, +and with an indifference <!-- page 17--><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>so +sublime to the popular desire that he should get along with his personal +narrative, was hardly calculated to conciliate critical opinion; but +it had one capital effect. It drew from Whitwell Elwin, himself +a Norfolk man, and a literary critic of the widest grasp and knowledge, +this remarkable testimony: that far from exaggerating such incidents +as were drawn from his own experience (not a few, as he himself could +verify), Borrow’s descriptions were rather <i>within the truth +than beyond it</i>. “However picturesquely they may be drawn, +the lines are invariably those of nature. . . . There can be no +doubt that the larger part, and possibly the whole of the work, is a +narrative of actual occurrences.”</p> +<p>Here, then, is the heart of the mystery, or of the mystery that is +apparent; the phenomenon is due primarily to the fact that Borrow’s +book is so abnormally true as regards the matter, while in manner of +presentation it is so strikingly original. There are superficial +traces, no doubt, of not a few writers of the eighteenth century. +In some of his effects Borrow reproduces Sterne: essentially Sternean, +for instance, is the interview between the youthful author and the experienced +Mr. Taggart.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Well, young gentleman,” said Taggart to +me one morning when we chanced to be alone, a few days after the affair +of cancelling, “how do you like authorship?”</p> +<p>“I scarcely call authorship the drudgery I am engaged in,” +said I.</p> +<p>“What do you call authorship?” said Taggart.</p> +<p>“I scarcely know,” said I; “that is, I can scarcely +express what I think it.”</p> +<p><!-- page 18--><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>“Shall +I help you out?” said Taggart, turning round his chair, and looking +at me.</p> +<p>“If you like,” said I.</p> +<p>“To write something grand,” said Taggart, taking snuff; +“to be stared at—lifted on people’s shoulders.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “that is something like it.”</p> +<p>Taggart took snuff.</p> +<p>“Well,” said he, “why don’t you write something +grand?”</p> +<p>“I have,” said I.</p> +<p>“What?” said Taggart.</p> +<p>“Why,” said I, “there are those ballads.”</p> +<p>Taggart took snuff.</p> +<p>“And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym.”</p> +<p>Taggart took snuff again.</p> +<p>“You seem to be very fond of snuff,” said I, looking +at him angrily.</p> +<p>Taggart tapped his box.</p> +<p>“Have you taken it long?”</p> +<p>“Three-and-twenty years.”</p> +<p>“What snuff do you take?”</p> +<p>“Universal Mixture.”</p> +<p>“And you find it of use?”</p> +<p>Taggart tapped his box.</p> +<p>“In what respect?” said I.</p> +<p>“In many—there is nothing like it to get a man through; +but for snuff I should scarcely be where I am now.”</p> +<p>“Have you been long here?”</p> +<p>“Three-and-twenty years.”</p> +<p>“Dear me,” said I; “and snuff brought you through? +Give me a pinch—pah, I don’t like it,” and I sneezed.</p> +<p>“Take another pinch,” said Taggart.</p> +<p>“No,” said I; “I don’t like snuff.”</p> +<p>“Then you will never do for authorship; at least for this kind.”</p> +<p>“So I begin to think. What shall I do?”</p> +<p><!-- page 19--><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>Taggart +took snuff.</p> +<p>“You were talking of a great work. What shall it be?”</p> +<p>Taggart took snuff.</p> +<p>“Do you think I could write one?”</p> +<p>Taggart uplifted his two forefingers as if to tap; he did not, however.</p> +<p>“It would require time,” said I, with half a sigh.</p> +<p>Taggart tapped his box.</p> +<p>“A great deal of time. I really think that my ballads—”</p> +<p>Taggart took snuff.</p> +<p>“If published, would do me credit. I’ll make an +effort, and offer them to some other publisher.”</p> +<p>Taggart took a double quantity of snuff.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Equally Sterne-like is the conclusion to a chapter: “Italy—what +was I going to say about Italy?”</p> +<p>Less superficial is the influence of Cervantes and his successors +of the Picaresque school, down to the last and most representative of +them in England, namely Defoe and Smollett. Profoundest of all, +perhaps, is the influence of Defoe, of whose powers of intense realisation, +exhibited in the best parts of <i>Robinson Crusoe</i>, we get a fine +counterpart amid the outcasts in Mumper’s Lane. Bound up +with the truthfulness and originality of the Author is that strange +absence of sycophancy, which we may flatter ourselves is no exceptional +thing, but which is in reality a very rare phenomenon in literature.</p> +<p>Apart from this independence of character which he so justly prized, +and a monomania or two, such as his devotion to philology or detestation +of popery, Borrow’s mental peculiarities are not by any means +so extravagant as has been supposed. His tastes were <!-- page 20--><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>for +the most part not unusual, though they might be assorted in a somewhat +uncommon manner. He was a thorough sportsman in the best sense, +but he combined with his sporting zeal an instinctive hatred of gambling, +of bad language, and of tyranny or cruelty in any form. He entertained +a love for the horse in the stable without bowing down to worship the +stage-coachmen, the jockeys, and other ignoble heroes of “horsey” +life. He loved his country and “the quiet, unpretending +Church of England.” He was ready to exalt the obsolescent +fisticuffs and the “strong ale of Old England,” but he was +not blind either to the drunkenness or to the overbearing brutality +which he had reason to fear might be held to disfigure the character +of the swilling and prize-fighting sections among his compatriots. <a name="citation20a"></a><a href="#footnote20a">{20a}</a></p> +<p>Borrow was a master of whim; but it is easy to exaggerate his eccentricity. +As a traveller who met with adventures upon the roads of Britain he +was surpassed by a dozen writers that could be named, and in our own +day—to mention one—by that truly eccentric being “The +Druid.” <a name="citation20b"></a><a href="#footnote20b">{20b}</a> +The Druid had a special affinity with Borrow, in regard to his kindness +for an old <!-- page 21--><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>applewoman. +His applewoman kept a stall in the Strand to which the Druid was a constant +visitor, mainly for the purpose of having a chat and borrowing and repaying +small sums, rarely exceeding one shilling. As an author, again, +Borrow was as jealous as one of Thackeray’s heroines; he could +hardly bear to hear a contemporary book praised. Whim, if you +will, but scarcely an example of literary eccentricity.</p> +<p>Borrow developed a delightful faculty for adventure upon the high +road, but such a faculty was far less singular than his gift—akin +to the greatest painter’s power of suggesting atmosphere—of +investing each scene and incident with a separate and distinct air of +uncompromising reality. Many persons may have had the advantage +of hearing conversation as brilliant or as wise as that of the dinner +at Dilly’s: what is distinctive of genius is the power to convey +the general feeling of the interlocutors, to suggest a dramatic effect, +an artistic whole, as Boswell does, by the cumulative effect of infinitesimal +factors. The triumph in each case is one not of opportunities +but of the subtlest literary sense.</p> +<p>Similarly, Borrow’s fixed ideas had little that was really +exceptional or peculiar about them. His hatred of mumbo-jumbo +and priestcraft was but a part of his steady love of freedom and sincerity. +His linguistic mania had less of a philological basis than he would +have us believe. Impatience that Babel should act as a barrier +between kindred souls, an insatiable curiosity, prompted by the knowledge +that the language of <!-- page 22--><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>minorities +was in nine cases out of ten the direct route to the heart of the secret +of folks that puzzled him—such were the motives that stimulated +a hunger for strange vocabularies, not in itself abnormal. The +colloquial faculty which he undoubtedly possessed—for we are told +by Taylor that when barely eighteen he already knew English, Welsh, +Irish, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, German, Danish, French, Italian, and Portuguese—rarely +goes with philological depth any more than with idiomatic purity. +Borrow learnt some languages to translate, many to speak imperfectly. +<a name="citation22"></a><a href="#footnote22">{22}</a></p> +<p><!-- page 23--><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>But +as a comparative philologist, with claims to scientific equipment, his +<i>Targum</i>, with its boasted versions from thirty languages or dialects, +pales considerably before the almost contemporary <i>Philological Grammar</i>, +based upon a comparison of over sixty tongues, by the Dorset poet William +Barnes, who, like Borrow himself, was a self-taught man. To mention +but two more English contemporaries of Borrow, there was Thomas Watts, +of the British Museum, who could read nearly fifty languages, including +Chinese; and Canon Cook, the editor of the <i>Speaker’s Commentary</i>, +who claimed acquaintance with fifty-four. It is commonly said +of Cardinal Mezzofanti that he could speak thirty and understand sixty. +It is quite plain from the pages of <i>Lavengro</i> itself that Borrow +did not share Gregory XVI.’s high estimate of the Cardinal’s +mental qualifications, unrivalled linguist though he was. That +a “word-master” so abnormal is apt to be deficient in logical +sense seems to have been Borrow’s deliberate opinion (with a saving +clause as to exceptions), and I have often thought that it must have +been Shakespeare’s too, for does he not ascribe a command of tongues +to the man who is perhaps the most consummate idiot in the whole range +of Shakespearean portraiture?</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 24--><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. +That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady talk of it +yesterday, and of a foolish knight that you brought in here to be her +wooer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir Toby Belch</span>. Who? Sir Andrew +Ague-cheek?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. Ay, he.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir Toby</span>. He’s as tall a man +as any in Illyria.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. What’s that to the +purpose?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir Toby</span>. Why, he has three thousand +ducats a year.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maria</span>. Ay, but he’ll have +but a year in all these ducats: he’s a very fool and a prodigal.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir Toby</span>. Fie that you’ll +say so! He plays o’ the viol de gamboys, and speaks three +or four languages word for word, without book.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The extraordinary linguistic gifts of a Mezzofanti were not, it is +true, concentrated in Borrow (whose powers in this direction have been +magnified), but they were sufficiently prominent in him to have a determining +effect upon his mind. Thus he was distinguished less for broad +views than for an extraordinary faculty for detail; when he attempts +to generalise we are likelier to get a flood of inconsequent prejudices +than a steady flow of reasoned opinions.</p> +<p>We can frequently study an author with good effect through the medium +of his literary admirations; we have already noticed a few of Borrow’s +predilections in real life. With regard to literature, his predilections +(or more particularly what Zola would call his <i>haines</i>) were fully +as protestant and as thorough. His indifference to the literature +of his own time might be termed brutal; his intellectual self-sufficiency +was worthy of a Macaulay or of a Donne. A fellow-denouncer of +snobs, he made <!-- page 25--><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>Thackeray +very uncomfortable by his contemptuous ignorance of <i>The Snob Papers</i>, +and even of the name of the periodical in which they were appearing. +Concerning Keats he once asked, “Have they not been trying to +resuscitate him?” When Miss Strickland wanted to send him +her Lives, he broke out: “For God’s sake don’t, madam; +I should not know where to put them or what to do with them.” +Scott’s <i>Woodstock</i> he picked up more than once and incontinently +threw down as “trashy.” As a general rule he judged +a modern author by his prejudices. If these differed by a hair’s +breadth from his own he damned the whole of his work. He had to +his credit a vast fund of quaint out-of-the-way reading; not to be acquainted +with this was dense unpardonable ignorance: what he had not read was +scarcely knowledge. He was not what one could fairly call unread +in the classical authors, for in a survey of his reviewers he compared +himself complacently enough with Cervantes, Bunyan and Le Sage. +He had the utmost suspicion of literary models; to try to be like somebody +else was the too popular literary precept that he held in the greatest +abhorrence. The gravity of his prescription of Wordsworth as a +specific in cases of chronic insomnia is probably due rather to the +thorough sincerity of his view than to any conscious subtlety of humour. +He disliked Scott especially for his easy tolerance of Jacobites and +Papists, <a name="citation25"></a><a href="#footnote25">{25}</a> while +he <!-- page 26--><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>distrusted +his portraits, those portraits of the rougher people which may have +frequently been over-praised by Scott’s admirers. We most +of us love Scott, it is a fact, beyond the power of nice discrimination. +As to the verisimilitude of a portrait such as that of Meg Merrilies +we must allow Borrow to be a most competent critic, but we are at a +loss to sympathise with his failure to appreciate studies of such lifelike +fidelity as Edie Ochiltree and Andrew Fairservice, whose views anent +“the muckle hure that sitteth on seven hills, as if ane wasna +braid eneugh for her auld hinder end,” had so much that was in +sympathy with Borrow’s own.</p> +<p>Of all such prejudices and peculiarities, no less than of his gifts, +Borrow was ridiculously proud. In certain respects he was as vainly, +querulously, and childishly assertive as Goldsmith himself; while in +the haughty self-isolation with which he eschewed the society of <!-- page 27--><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>people +with endowments as great or even greater than his own, he was quite +the opposite of “poor Goldy.” If the latter had regarded +his interlocutors straight in the eyes with a look that told them he +was prepared to knock them down at a moment’s notice upon the +least provocation, we should probably have heard less of his absurdities. +A man who even in his old age could walk off with E. J. Trelawny <a name="citation27a"></a><a href="#footnote27a">{27a}</a> +under his arm (as Mr. Watts-Dunton assures us Borrow could) was certainly +not one to be trifled with.</p> +<p>Borrow’s absolute unconventionality was of course an offence +to many; to Englishmen, who were dreaming in the fifties of a kind of +industrial millennium, with Cobden as the prophet and Macaulay as the +preacher of a new gospel of commercial prosperity and universal peace +and progress, Borrow’s pre-railroad prejudices and low tastes +appeared obscurantist, dark, squalid, unintelligible. <a name="citation27b"></a><a href="#footnote27b">{27b}</a> +He ran out his books upon a line directly <!-- page 28--><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>counter +to the literary current of the day, and, naturally enough, the critical +billow broke over him.</p> +<p>Hazlitt’s proposition—so readily accepted by the smug +generation of his day—that London was the only place in which +the child could grow up completely into the man—would have appeared +the most perverse kind of nonsense to Borrow. The complexity of +a modern type, such as that of a big organiser of industrial labour, +did not impress him. He esteemed the primitive above the economic +man, and was apt to judge a human being rather as Robinson Crusoe might +have done than in the spirit of a juryman at an Industrial Exhibition. +Again, his feeling for nature was intimate rather than enthusiastic, +at a time when people still looked for a good deal of pretty Glover-like +composition in their landscapes.</p> +<p>One of the most original traits of Borrow’s genius was the +care and obstinacy with which he defended his practical, vigorous and +alert personality against the allurements of word-painting, of Nature +and of Reverie. <!-- page 29--><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>He +could respond to the thrill of natural beauty, he could enjoy his mood +when it veritably came upon him, just as he could enjoy a tankard of +old ale or linger to gaze upon a sympathetic face; but he refused to +pamper such feelings, still more to simulate them; he refused to allow +himself to become the creature of literary or poetic ecstasy; he refused +to indulge in the fashionable debauch of dilettante melancholy. +He wrote about his life quite naturally, “as if there were nothing +in it.” Another and closely allied cause of perplexity and +discontent to the literary connoisseurs was Borrow’s lack of style. +By style, in the generation of Macaulay and Carlyle, of Dickens and +George Eliot, was implied something recondite—a wealth of metaphor, +imagery, allusion, colour and perfume—a palette, a pounce-box, +an optical instrument, a sounding-board, a musical box, anything rather +than a living tongue. To a later race of stylists, who have gone +as far as Samoa and beyond in the quest of exotic perfumery, Borrow +would have said simply, in the words of old Montaigne, “To smell, +though well, is to stink,”—“Malo, quam bene olere, +nil olere.” Borrow, in fact, by a right instinct went back +to the straightforward manner of Swift and Defoe, Smollett and Cobbett, +whose vigorous prose he specially admired; and he found his choice ill +appreciated by critics whose sense of style demanded that a clear glass +window should be studded with bull’s-eyes. To his distinctions +of being a poet well-nigh incapable of verse, and a humourist with marvellously +little pathos, <!-- page 30--><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>Borrow +thus added one which we are inclined to regard as the greatest of all—that +of being a great nineteenth-century prose-writer without a style.</p> +<p>Though he did not elaborate, or strive to attain to the cultism or +polite style of contemporary genius, Borrow seems to have written with +some difficulty (or at any rate a lack of facility), and, impervious +as he was to criticism, he retained in his prose a number of small faults +that he might easily have got rid of. His manner of introducing +his generalities and conclusions is often either superfluous, or lame +and clumsy. Despite his natural eloquence, his fondness for the +apostrophe is excessive; he preserved an irritating habit of parading +such words as <i>éclat</i>, <i>penchant</i> and <i>monticle</i>, +and persisted in saying “of a verity,” and using the word +“individual” in the sense of person. Such blemishes +are microscopic enough. It was not such trifles as these that +proved stumbling-blocks to the “men of blood and foam,” +as he called his critics.</p> +<p>Of the generality of the critics of that day it would probably be +well within the mark to aver that their equipment was more solid, and +their competence more assured than that of their successors; <a name="citation30"></a><a href="#footnote30">{30}</a> +it would be <!-- page 31--><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>safe +to assert that their self-sufficiency was also decidedly more pronounced. +Now for reasons which we have endeavoured to explain, the equanimity +of the critical reviewers was considerably ruffled by <i>Lavengro</i>. +Perplexed by its calling itself an autobiography, they were at the same +time discontented both with its subject-matter and its style. +To a not altogether misplaced curiosity on the part of the public as +to Borrow’s antecedents, the author of the <i>Bible in Spain</i> +had responded by <i>Lavengro</i>, which he fully meant to be (what it +indeed was) a masterpiece. Yet public and critics were agreed +in failing to see the matter in this light. As the reader will +probably have deduced from the foregoing pages, the trouble was mainly +due to the following causes. First, baffled curiosity. Secondly, +a dislike for Borrow’s prejudices. Thirdly, <!-- page 32--><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>a +disgust at his philistinism in refusing to bow down and worship the +regnant idols of ‘taste.’ Fourthly, the total absence +in Borrow of the sentimentality for which the soul of the normal Englishman +yearns. Fifthly, disappointment at not finding the critic’s +due from an accepted author in quotable passages of picturesque prose.</p> +<p>These views are appropriately summed up through the medium of the +pure and scentless taste of the <i>Athenæum</i>. The varied +contents of <i>Lavengro</i> are here easily reduced to one denomination—’balderdash,’ +for the emission of which the <i>Athenæum</i> critic proceeds +(in the interests, of course, of the highest gentility), to give George +Borrow a good scolding.</p> +<p>How sadly removed was such procedure from Borrow’s own ideal +of reviewing, as set forth in the very volume under consideration! +Such operations should always, he held, be conducted in a spirit worthy +of an editor of Quintilian, in a gentlemanly, Oxford-like manner. +No vituperation! No insinuations! Occasionally a word of +admonition, but gently expressed as an Oxford M.A. might have expressed +it. Some one had ventured to call the <i>Bible in Spain</i> a +grotesque book, but the utterance had been drowned in the chorus of +acclamation. Now Borrow complained that he had had the honour +of being rancorously abused by every unmanly scoundrel, every sycophantic +lacquey, and every political and religious renegade in the kingdom. +His fury was that of an angry bull tormented by a swarm of gnats. +His worst passions were aroused; <!-- page 33--><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>his +most violent prejudices confirmed. His literary zeal, never extremely +alert, was sensibly diminished.</p> +<p>This last result at least was a calamity. Nevertheless the +great end had, in the main, already been accomplished. Borrow +had broken through the tameness of the regulation literary memoir, and +had shown the naked footprint on the sand. The ‘great unknown’ +had gone down beneath his associations, his acquirements and his adventures, +and had to a large extent revealed <i>himself</i>—a primitive +man, with his breast by no means wholly rid of the instincts of the +wild beast, grappling with the problem of a complex humanity: an epitome +of the eternal struggle which alone gives savour to the wearisome process +of “civilisation.” For the conventional man of the +lapidary phrase and the pious memoir (corrected by the maiden sister +and the family divine), Borrow dared to substitute the <i>genus homo</i> +of natural history. Perhaps it was only to be expected that, like +the discoveries of another Du Chaillu, his revelations should be received +with a howl of incredulity.</p> +<p>Almost alone, as far as we can discover, among the critics of the +day Émile Montégut realised <i>to the full</i> the true +greatness, the originality, the abiding quality and interest of Borrow’s +work. Writing in September 1857 upon “Le Gentilhomme Bohémien” +(an essay which appears in his <i>Ecrivains Modernes de l’Angleterre</i>, +between studies on “Mistress Browning” and Alfred Tennyson), +Montégut remarks of Borrow’s “humoristic Odyssey”:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Unfinished and fragmentary, these writings can +dispense <!-- page 34--><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>with +a conclusion, for they have an intrinsic value, and each page bears +the impress of reality. The critic who has to give his impressions +of one of Borrow’s books is in much the same case as a critic +who had to give his impressions in turn of the different parts of <i>Gil +Blas</i> as they successively appeared. The work is incomplete, +but each several part is excellent and can be appreciated by itself. +Borrow has resuscitated a literary form which had been many years abandoned, +and he has resuscitated it in no artificial manner—as a rhythmical +form is rehabilitated, or as a dilettante re-establishes for a moment +the vogue of the roundel or the virelay—but quite naturally as +the inevitable setting for a picture which has to include the actors +and the observations of the author’s vagabond life. To a +clear and unprejudiced mind, observation of the life of the common folk +and, above all, of the itinerant population and of their equivocal moral +code, of necessity and invariably, compels resort to the form and manner +of the <i>novéla picaresca</i>.</p> +<p>“The huge sensational romance [Sue], the creaking machinery +of melodrama [Boucicault], with which it has been attempted in our own +day to portray certain tableaux of the life of the people, only succeed, +owing to the extravagance of their construction, in demonstrating the +complete ignorance on the part of the writers of the subject which they +pretend to describe. Borrow has not of set purpose adopted the +picaresque form: search his pages where you will, you will find not +a trace of such an intention. He has rediscovered the picaresque +method, as it were instinctively, by the mere fact of his having to +express sentiments of a certain description; he has indeed rediscovered +it by the same process which led Cervantes and Hurtado de Mendoza to +invent it—by virtue of that necessity which always enables genius +to give the most appropriate clothing to its conceptions. To attain +this result, however, it is necessary that genius should not be thrown +off its balance by deliberate ambition, <!-- page 35--><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>or +too much preoccupied by the immediate desire to succeed. By his +conformity to all these conditions, Borrow has become, without giving +a thought to such purpose, the Quevedo and the Mendoza of modern England.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Beyond all this there is quite another and perhaps an even more potent +reason why the critics of a later generation have felt constrained to +place this work of Borrow’s upon a higher pedestal than their +predecessors did.</p> +<p>As within the four angles of a painting there is nothing more difficult +to confine than sunlight and atmosphere, so in literature is it a task +of the highest achievement to compass the wind on the heath, the sunshine +and the rain. We know the dark background, the mystery and the +awe of the forest, how powerfully they are suggested to us by some old +writers and some modern ones, such as Spenser and Fouqué, by +the author of <i>The Pathfinder</i> and Thoreau; the scent of the soil, +once again, in rain and in shine, is it not conveyed to us with an astonishing +distinctness, that is the product of a literary endowment of the rarest +order, by such writers as Izaak Walton and Robert Burns, and among recent +writers in varying degrees by Richard Jefferies and by Barnes, by T. +E. Brown and Thomas Hardy? And then there is the kindred touch, +hardly if at all less rare, which evokes for us the camaraderie and +blithe spirit of the highway: the winding road, the flashing stream, +the bordering coppice, the view from the crest, the twinkling lights +at nightfall from the sheltering inn. Traceable in a long line +of our <!-- page 36--><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>most +cherished writers, from Chaucer and Lithgow and Nash, Defoe and Fielding, +and Hazlitt and Holcroft, the fascination of the road that these writers +have tried to communicate, has never perhaps been expressed with a nicer +discernment than in the <i>Confessions</i> of Rousseau, that inveterate +pedestrian who walked Europe to the rhythm of ideas as epoch-making +as any that have ever emanated from the mind of man.</p> +<blockquote><p>“La chose que je regrette le plus” (writes +Rousseau) “dans les details de ma vie dont j’ai perdu la +mémoire, est de n’avoir pas fait des journaux de mes voyages. +Jamais je n’ai tant pensé, tant existé, tant vécu, +tant été moi, si j’ose ainsi dire, que dans ceux +que j’ai faits seul et à pied. La marche a quelque +chose qui anime et avive mes idées: je ne puis presque penser +quand je reste en place; il faut que mon corps soit en branle pour y +mettre mon esprit. La vue de la campagne, la succession des aspects +agréables, le grand air, le grand appétit, la bonne sante +que je gagne en marchant, la liberté du cabaret, l’éloignement +de tout ce qui me fait sentir ma dépendance, de tout ce qui me +rappelle à ma situation: tout cela dégage mon âme.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It is a possession in a rare degree of this wonderful open-air quality +as a writer that constrains us in our generation to condone any offences +against the mint and anise and cummin decrees of literary infallibility +that Borrow may have from time to time committed. And when it +is realised, in addition, what a unique knowledge he possessed of the +daily life, the traditions, the folk-lore, and the dialects of the strange +races of vagrants, forming such a picturesque element in the life of +the road, the documentary value, as apart from the <!-- page 37--><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>literary +interest of Borrow’s work, becomes more and more manifest.</p> +<p><i>Lavengro</i> is not a book, it is true, to open sesame to the +first comer, or to yield up one tithe of its charm upon a first acquaintance. +Yet, in spite of the “foaming vipers,” as Borrow styles +his critics, <i>Lavengro’s</i> roots have already struck deep +into the soil of English literature, as Dr. Hake predicted that they +would. <a name="citation37"></a><a href="#footnote37">{37}</a> +We know something about the dim retreating Arcady from Dr. Jessopp, +we know something of the old farmers and tranters and woodlanders from +Hardy, something of late Georgian London from Dickens, something of +the old Lancashire mill-hands from Mrs. Gaskell, and something of provincial +town-life in the forties and fifties from George Eliot. It has +fallen to Borrow to hold up the mirror to wild Nature on the roadside +and the heath.</p> +<blockquote><p>“The personages in these inimitable books are not +merely snap-shots, they are living pictures; and, more than that, the +people are moving about amid fluttering leaves and flickering sunlight +and waves of shadow and rippling brooks. One neither misses the +colours of the landscapes nor the very sounds of the voices. Moreover, +the characters, though we <!-- page 38--><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>feel +that they have never come within the range of our experience, yet did +actually live and move and talk as they are represented; and we know, +too, that such characters have passed away from our earth—improved +off the face of it. And we regret, in spite of ourselves, that +these gypsies are gone. The rogues will never come back! +A feeling of disappointment is apt to come over us as we read, and we +are ready to stop and ask angrily, ‘Why can’t we drop in +among the tents, and see an Ursula or a Pakomovna, and have our fortunes +told as of yore?’ And we know that it cannot be, and that +the Romany Rye is a being who lived and moved in a different age from +ours, as different as the age of Hector and Achilles, when warriors +fought in their chariots round the walls of Troy, and the long-haired +Achaians hurled their spears and stole one another’s horses in +the darkness, and kings made long speeches armed to the teeth, and ran +away with other kings’ wives or multiplied their own. We +go on to confess to ourselves that we must be content with hearing about +all the strange experience of the Romany Rye at second-hand, and since +it must be so, we shall do well to surrender ourselves to such a magician +as this and make the best of it.” <a name="citation38"></a><a href="#footnote38">{38}</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>After the publication of the <i>Romany Rye</i> in 1857, Borrow made +one more contribution to Belles Lettres in the book called <i>Wild Wales</i>, +issued in three volumes in 1862. It commemorates a journey made +in the summer of 1854, while its heroic championship of the Bardic literature +recalls the earlier enthusiasm for Ab Gwilym. If after his return +from Spain a definite sphere of activity abroad could have been allotted +to Borrow (by preference in the East, as he himself desired), we might +have had <!-- page 39--><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>from +his pen contributions to the study of Eastern life that would have added +lustre to a group of writers already brilliantly represented in England +by Curzon and Kinglake, Lane and Morier, Palgrave and Burton. +With Burton’s love of roving adventure, of strange tongues, and +of anthropology in its widest sense, the author of the <i>Bible in Spain</i> +had many points in common. As it was, the later years of Borrow’s +life were spent somewhat moodily, and with some of the mystery of Swift’s +or of Rousseau’s, at Oulton, near Lowestoft, whence, at Christmas +1874, he sent a message to the neighbouring hermit, Edward Fitzgerald +at Woodbridge, in the vain hope of eliciting a visit. <a name="citation39a"></a><a href="#footnote39a">{39a}</a> +His wife, who had been won with her widow’s jointure and dower +during the flush of his missionary successes in 1840, died at the end +of January 1869, <a name="citation39b"></a><a href="#footnote39b">{39b}</a> +and on July 26th, 1881, after years <!-- page 40--><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>spent +in a strange seclusion at Oulton, tended latterly by his step-daughter +Henrietta, George Borrow was found dead in his bed, dying as he had +lived, alone. Not long after his death, which took place when +he was seventy-eight, Borrow’s Oulton home was pulled down. +All that now remains to mark the spot where it once stood are the old +summer-house in which he wrote <i>Lavengro</i>, and the ragged fir-trees +that sighed the requiem of his last hours. Without appealing to +“the shires,” but in the Eastern counties alone, he has +been commemorated since his death by such writers as Henry Dutt, and +Whitwell Elwin, by Egmont Hake, by Theodore Watts-Dunton, and by Dr. +Jessopp. And now ere the close of the century <a name="citation40"></a><a href="#footnote40">{40}</a> +it has fallen to the lot of yet another East Anglian to place a small +stone upon the cairn of George Borrow.</p> +<h3>II.</h3> +<p>The two books <i>Lavengro</i> and <i>Romany Rye</i> are in reality +one work, an unfinished autobiography, commenced upon a moderate and +quite feasible scale; but after about a third of the ground is covered +the scale is enormously increased, the narrative, encumbered by a vast +amount of detail, makes less and less progress, and finally stops short, +without any obvious, but rather <!-- page 41--><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>a +lame and impotent conclusion, at chapter xlvii. of the <i>Romany Rye</i>, +or chapter cxlvii. of the work considered as one whole. The disproportion +of the scale will be sufficiently indicated when we point out that the +first twenty-two years of the author’s life are treated pretty +equally in fifty-seven chapters (i. to lvii.). The remaining ninety +chapters (lviii. to cxlvii.) are wholly taken up by the incidents of +less than four months, the four summer months of 1825. The first +twenty-two years of the author’s life are far from commonplace. +The interest is well sustained, but is seldom intense,—at no point +is the author’s memory sufficiently teeming to cause an overflow; +but with the conclusion of his sojourn in London, May 22nd, 1825, commences +an itinerant life, the novelty of which graves every incident in the +most vivid possible manner upon the writer’s recollection. +With his emancipation from town life a new graphic impulse is developed. +Borrow seizes a new palette and sets to work with fresher colours upon +a stupendous canvas. This canvas may be described as taking the +form of a triptych. In the first compartment we have the first +sensations of the roadfarer’s life and some minor adventures: +a visit to Stonehenge; the strange meeting with a returned convict, +who turns out to be the old applewoman’s son; the vignette of +the hostelry, with the figures of the huge fat landlord and the handmaid +Jenny; the visit to the stranger gentleman who protects himself by “touching” +against evil chance; the interview with the Rev. Mr. Platitude, and +the bargain struck with the travelling tinker, Jack <!-- page 42--><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>Slingsby, +whose stock-in-trade and profession the writer determines to adopt. +Then comes the word-master’s detection in his new sphere of life +by the malignant gipsy godmother, Mrs. Herne, from whose remorseless +attempt to poison him he is rescued by the kindly hearted Welsh preacher +Peter Williams and his wife Winifred. In requital he manages to +relieve the good man of a portion of the load of superstitious terror +by which he is burdened. This section of the narrative is terminated +by a graphic description of his renewal of associateship with his old +friend Jasper Petulengro, the satisfaction he gives that worthy for +having been the innocent cause of Mrs. Herne’s death, and his +decision to pitch his tent in the dingle. Chapters lviii. to lxxxii. +are taken up with the foregoing incidents, which lead up to the central +episode of the autobiography, the settlement in the dingle, with which +the reader is here presented. This episode, forming the second +panel in the detailed scheme, occupies chapters lxxxiii. to cxvi., but +it is bisected near the middle by the termination of <i>Lavengro</i> +at chapter c. The two parts are united now for the first time, +and are given a prominent setting in relief from the rest of the narrative. +The third compartment of the triptych, which occupies chapters cxvii. +to cxlvii. (that is, chapters xvii. to xlvii. of the <i>Romany Rye</i>), +is devoted to what we may call the horse-dealing episode. After +the loss of Isopel Berners, the Romany Rye, as the author-hero is now +termed, consoles himself by the purchase of a splendid horse, to obtain +which he consents, much <!-- page 43--><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>against +his will, to accept a loan of £50 from Jasper Petulengro, the +product of that worthy’s labours in the prize ring. He travels +across England with the horse, meeting with adventures by the way, narrating +them to others, and obtaining some curious autobiographical narratives +in return. Finally he reaches Horncastle, and sells the animal +at the horse fair there for £150. Here, in August 1825, +the narrative of his life abruptly ends. <a name="citation43"></a><a href="#footnote43">{43}</a></p> +<p>It must not be supposed by any means that the interest of Borrow’s +two autobiographical volumes is concentrated in the last eighteen chapters +of <i>Lavengro</i> and the first sixteen chapters of the <i>Romany Rye</i>. +The quality of continuity is, it is true, best preserved in the dingle +episode. Artistically the Brynhildic figure of Isopel serves as +the best relief that could be found for Borrow’s own “Titanic +self.” There is undoubtedly a feeling of unity here which +is hardly to be felt in any other part of the Borrovian “Odyssey.”</p> +<p>It is nevertheless true that, taken as a whole, a marked characteristic +of the two volumes is the evenness with which the charms are scattered +hither and thither betwixt the four covers. Attractive, therefore, +as the Isopel Berners episode unquestionably is, and convenient as <!-- page 44--><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>it +is to the reader to have it detached for him in its unity, its perusal +must not be taken for a moment to absolve the lover of good literature +from traversing chapter by chapter, canto by canto, the whole of the +Borrevian epic. It is outside the dingle that he will have to +look for the faithfully described bewilderment of the old applewoman +after the loss of her book, and for the compassionate delineation of +the old man with the bees and the donkey who gave the young Rye to drink +of mead at his cottage, and was unashamed at having shed tears on the +road. The most heroic of the pugilistic encounters takes place, +it is true, in the thick of the dingle, but it is elsewhere that the +reader will have to look for the description of the memorable thrashing +inflicted upon the bullying stage-coachman by the “elderly individual” +who followed the craft of engraving, and learnt fisticuffs from Sergeant +Broughton. In the same neighbourhood he will find the admirable +vignette of the old man who could read the inscription on Chinese crockery +pots, but could not tell what’s o’clock, and the life narratives +of the jockey and of the inexpert thimble-rigger, Murtagh, who was imprisoned +three years for interrupting the Pope’s game at picquet, but finally +won his way by card-sharping to the very threshold of the Cardinalate. +In the second half of the <i>Romany Rye</i>, too, he will find the noble +apostrophes to youth, and ale, and England, “the true country +for adventures,” which he will compare, as examples of Borrovian +eloquence, with the stirring description of embattled England in the +third chapter <!-- page 45--><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>of +<i>Lavengro</i>, or the apostrophe to the Irish cob and the Author’s +first ride in chapter thirteen.</p> +<p>Borrow’s is a wonderful book for one to lose one’s <i>way</i> +in, among the dense undergrowth, but it is a still grander book for +the reader to lose <i>himself</i> in. In the dingle, best of all, +he can “forget his own troublesome personality as completely as +if he were in the depths of the ancient forest along with Gurth and +Wamba.” Labyrinthine, however, as the autobiography may +at first sight appear, the true lover of Borrow will soon have little +difficulty in finding the patteran or gypsy trail (for indeed the Romany +element runs persistently as a chorus-thread through the whole of the +autobiographical writings), which serves as a clue to the delights of +which his work is so rich a storehouse. The question that really +exercises Borrovians most is the relative merit of stories and sections +of the narrative—the comparative excellence of the early ‘life’ +in <i>Lavengro</i> and of the later detached episodes in the <i>Romany +Rye</i>. Most are in some sort of agreement as to the supremacy +of the dingle episode, which has this advantage: Borrow is always at +his best when dealing with strange beings and abnormal experiences. +When he is describing ordinary mortals he treats them with coldness +as mere strangers. The commonplace town-dwellers seldom arouse +his sympathy, never kindle his enthusiasm. He is quite another +being when we wander by his side within the bounds of his enchanted +dingle.</p> +<p>This history of certain doings in a Staffordshire dingle, during +the month of July 1825, begins with a battle-royal, <!-- page 46--><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>which +places Borrow high amongst the narrators of human conflicts from the +days of the Iliad to those of Pierce Egan; yet the chapters that set +forth this episode of the dingle are less concerned with the “gestes” +than with the sayings of its occupants. Rare, indeed, are the +dramatic dialogues amid the sylvan surroundings of the tree-crowned +hollow, that surpass in interest even the vivid details of the memorable +fray between the flaming tinman and the pugilistic philologer. +Pre-eminent amongst the dialogues are those between the male occupant +of the dingle and the popish propagandist, known as the man in black. +More fascinating still, perhaps, are the word-master’s conversations +with Jasper; most wonderful of all, in the opinion of many, is his logomachy +with Ursula under the thorn bush. We shall not readily forget +Jasper’s complaints that all the ‘old-fashioned, good-tempered +constables’ are going to be set aside, or his gloomy anticipations +of the iron roads in which people are to ‘thunder along in vehicles +pushed forward by fire and smoke.’ As for his comparison +of the gypsies to cuckoos, the roguish charring fellows, for whom every +one has a bad word, yet whom every one is glad to greet once again when +the spring comes round, or Ursula’s exposition of gypsy love and +marriage beneath the hedge,—these are Borrow at his best, as he +is most familiar to us, in the open air among gypsies. With the +popish emissary it is otherwise: his portrait is the creation of Borrow’s +most studied hatred. Yet it must be admitted that the man in black +is a triumph of complex characterisation. A joyous liver and an +unscrupulous <!-- page 47--><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>libertine, +sceptical as Voltaire, as atheistic as a German professor, as practical +as a Jew banker, as subtle as a Jesuit, he has as many ways of converting +the folks among whom he is thrown as Panurge had of eating the corn +in ear. For the simple and credulous—crosses and beads; +for the hard-hearted and venal—material considerations; for the +cultured and educated—a fine tissue of epigrams and anthropology; +for the ladies—flattery and badinage. A spiritual ancestor +of Anatole France’s marvellous full-length figure of Jerôme +Coignard, Borrow’s conception takes us back first to Rabelais +and secondly to the seventeenth-century conviction of the profound Machiavellism +of Jesuitry.</p> +<p>The man in black and Jasper are great, but the master attraction +of the region that we are to traverse is admittedly Isopel Berners. +It will perhaps be observed that our heroine makes her appearance on +the stage rather more in the fashion of Molly Seagrim than of that other +engaging Amazon of romance, Diana Vernon, whose “long hair streaming +in the wind” forms one single point of resemblance to our fair +Isopel. In other respects, certainly no two heroines could be +more dissimilar. Unaided even by the slightest assistance from +the graphic arts, the difficulty of picturing the lineaments of this +muscular beauty, as she first burst on the sight of our autobiographer +upon the declivity of the dingle, may be freely confessed, ere an attempt +is made to describe her. We know, however, on the testimony of +a sincere admirer, that she was over six feet high, with loose-flowing, +flaxen hair; that she wore a <!-- page 48--><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>tight +bodice and a skirt of blue, to match the colour of her eyes; and that +eighteen summers had passed over her head since she first saw the light +in the great house of Long Melford, a nursery in which she learnt to +fear God and take her own part, and a place the very name of which she +came to regard as a synonym for a strong right arm. Borrow’s +first impression of her was one of immensity; she was big enough, he +said, to have been born in a church; almost simultaneously, he observed +her affinity to those Scandinavian divinities to which he assigned the +first place in the pantheon of his affections. She reminded him, +indeed, of the legendary Ingeborg, queen of Norway. It is remarkable, +and well worth noticing, that the impression that she produced was instantaneous. +Our wanderer had never been impressed in any similar fashion by any +of the gypsy women with whom he was brought into contact, though, as +many a legend and ballad can attest, such women have often exerted extraordinary +attraction over Englishmen of pure blood. But it is evident that +his physical admiration was reserved for a tall blonde of the Scandinavian +type, to which he gave the name of a Brynhilde. Hence, notwithstanding +his love of the economics of gypsy life, his gypsy women are for the +most part no more than scenic characters; they clothe and beautify the +scene, but they have little dramatic force about them. And when +he comes to delineate a heroine, Isopel Berners, she is physically the +very opposite of a Romany chi.</p> +<p>Fewer words will suffice to describe Isopel’s first impressions +of her future partner in the dingle. She <!-- page 49--><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>unmistakably +regarded him as a chaffing fellow who was not quite right in his head; +and there is reason for believing, that, though she came to entertain +a genuine regard for the young ‘squire,’ her opinions as +to the condition of his brain underwent no sensible modification. +She herself is fairly explicit on this subject: she seems indeed to +have arrived at the deliberate conviction that, if not abnormally selfish, +he was at any rate fundamentally mad; and there was perhaps a germ of +truth in the conclusion, sufficient at any rate to colour Lombroso’s +theory of the inherent madness of men of genius. One of the testimonies +that we have as to Borrow’s later life at Oulton is to the effect +that he got bewildered at times and fancied himself Wodin; but the substratum +of sanity is strongly exhibited in the remedy which he himself applied. +“What do you think I do when I get bewildered after this fashion? +I go out to the sty and listen to the grunting of the pigs until I get +back to myself.” <a name="citation49"></a><a href="#footnote49">{49}</a></p> +<p>Of Isopel’s history we know extremely little, save what she +herself tells us. Her father was an officer <!-- page 50--><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>who +was killed in a naval action before he could fulfil the promise of marriage +he had made to her mother, a small milliner, who died in the workhouse +at Long Melford within three months of the effort of giving birth to +an amazon so large and so fierce and so well able to take her own part +as Isopel. At fourteen this fine specimen of workhouse upbringing +was placed in service, from which she emancipated herself by knocking +down her mistress. After two years more at the “large house” +she was once more apprenticed; and this time knocked down her master +in return for an affront. A second return to the workhouse appearing +inadvisable, she traversed the highways of England in various capacities, +and became acquainted with some of those remarkable though obscure characters +who travelled the roads of our country at that period. A sense +of loneliness drove her among unworthy travelling companions, such as +the flying tinker and grey Moll, in whose society she breaks upon our +notice. Some of the vagrants with whom she came into contact had +occasionally attempted to lay violent hands upon her person and effects, +but had been invariably humbled by her without the aid of either justice +or constable.</p> +<p>Of her specific exploits as a bruiser we hear of at least two near +Dover. Once, the cart she and her old mistress travelled with +was stopped by two sailors, who would have robbed and stripped the owners. +“Let me get down,” she exclaimed simply, and so saying she +got down, and fought with them both until they turned round and ran +away. On another occasion, while combing out her long hair <!-- page 51--><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>beneath +a hedge, she was insulted by a jockey. Starting up, though her +hair was unbound, she promptly gave him what he characterised as “a +most confounded whopping,” and “the only drubbing I ever +had in my life; and lor, how with her right hand she fibbed me while +she held me round the neck with her left arm! I was soon glad +to beg her pardon on my knees, which she gave me in a moment when she +saw me in that condition, being the most placable creature in the world, +and not only her pardon but one of the hairs which I longed for, which +I put through a shilling for purposes of pleasant deception at country +fairs.” The hair with the shilling attached to it eventually +became a treasured possession of the Romany Rye.</p> +<p>Rude as some of these characteristics may appear, we are left in +no manner of doubt as to the essential nobility, befitting her name, +of Miss Berners—her character and bearing. Her carriage, +especially of the neck and shoulders, reminded the postilion of the +Marchioness of ---; and he took her unhesitatingly for a young lady +of high rank and distinction, who had temporarily left her friends, +and was travelling in the direction of Gretna Green with the fortunate +Rye. The word-master, in disabusing the postilion of this idea, +gave utterance to the conviction that he might search the world in vain +for a nature more heroic and devoted.</p> +<p>Like a lady of the highest quality, the beauteous queen of the dingle +was subject to the vapours and to occasional fits of inexplicable weeping; +but as a general rule she shared with Borrow himself a proud contempt +for that <!-- page 52--><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>mad +puppy gentility, and her predominant characteristic, like his, was the +simplicity that puzzled by reason of its directness and its purity. +<a name="citation52"></a><a href="#footnote52">{52}</a> That these +qualities were not unaccompanied by a considerable amount of hauteur, +is shown by her uncompromising rejection of the ceremonial advances +made to her by that accomplished courtier, the man in black.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Lovely virgin,” said he, with a graceful +bow and stretching out his hand, “allow me to salute your fingers.”</p> +<p>“I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers,” +said Belle.</p> +<p>“I did not presume to request to shake hands with you,” +said the man in black. “I merely wished to be permitted +to salute with my lips the extremities of your two forefingers.”</p> +<p>“I never permit anything of the kind,” said Belle. +“I do not approve of such unmanly ways.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>His importunity is rebuked more forcibly upon another occasion, when +the nymph bids the priest with asperity to “hold his mumping gibberish.”</p> +<p>The striking beauty of Belle, especially that of her blue eyes and +flaxen hair, and the impressiveness of her demeanour, calm and proud, +which compelled the similitude to a serious and queenly heroine, such +as ‘Queen Theresa of Hungary, or Brynhilda, the Valkyrie, the +beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer,’ is emphasised by the contrast +drawn between her and the handsome <!-- page 53--><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>brunette +Mrs. Petulengro, who is for the nonce subjugated by Isopel’s beauty, +and craves the privilege of acting as her tire-woman.</p> +<p>Alas, as is so often the case in life, Lavengro and the reader are +only just beginning to realise the beauty and the value of the “bellissima,” +as the man in black calls her, when she is on the point of sinking beneath +our horizon, passing away like the brief music of an aubade.</p> +<p>Rapidly, much too rapidly, do we approach that summer dawn when Belle, +dressed neatly and plainly, her hair no longer plaited in Romany fashion +or floating in the wind, but secured by a comb, uncovered no longer, +but wearing a bonnet, her features very pale, allowed her cold hand +to be wrung—it was for the last time—by the unconscious +Rye. The latter ascended to the plain and thence looked down towards +the dingle. “Isopel Berners stood at the mouth, the beams +of the early morning sun shone full on her noble face and figure. +I waved my hands towards her, she slowly lifted up her right arm; I +turned away, and never saw Isopel Berners again.”</p> +<p>Hardly less forlorn is the reader than the philologist when the latter +arrives back at the dingle, after a visit to the tavern two miles away, +to find that the tardily recognised treasure is lost to him for ever,—resolved +at length, too late, to give over teasing Belle by pretending to teach +her Armenian, determined, when the need is past, to regularise his “uncertificated” +relations with the glorious damozel, and resigned, when <!-- page 54--><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>concession +is fruitless, to sink those objections to America which Belle had disavowed, +but which he had been proud to share with disbanded soldiers, sextons, +and excisemen. To this decision his tortuous conferences with +Jasper, and his frank soliloquy in the dingle, had bent him fully forty-eight +hours before Belle’s ultimate departure, unwilling though he was +to incur the yoke of matrimony.</p> +<blockquote><p>“I figured myself in America” (says he, in +his reverie over the charcoal fire), “in an immense forest, clearing +the land destined by my exertions to become a fruitful and smiling plain. +Methought I heard the crash of the huge trees as they fell beneath my +axe; and then I bethought me that a man was intended to marry—I +ought to marry; and if I married, where was I likely to be more happy +as a husband and a father, than in America, engaged in tilling the ground? +I fancied myself in America engaged in tilling the ground, assisted +by an enormous progeny—well, why not marry and go and till the +ground in America? I was young, and youth was the time to marry +in and to labour in; I had the use of all my faculties; my eyes, it +is true, were rather dull from early study, but I could see tolerably +well with them and they were not bleared. I felt my arms and thighs +and teeth—they were strong and sound enough; so now was the time +to labour, to marry, eat strong flesh, and beget strong children—the +power of doing all this would pass away with youth, which was terribly +transitory. I bethought me that a time would come when my eyes +would be bleared and perhaps sightless; my arms and thighs strengthless +and sapless; when my teeth would shake in my jaws, even supposing they +did not drop out. No going a-wooing then, no labouring, no eating +strong flesh and begetting lusty children then; and <!-- page 55--><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>I +bethought me how, when all this should be, I should bewail the days +of my youth as misspent, provided I had not in them founded for myself +a home, and begotten strong children to take care of me in the days +when I could not take care of myself; and thinking of these things I +became sadder and sadder, and stared vacantly upon the fire until my +eyes closed in a doze.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It is significant that upon his return from the dream that followed +this reverie, the would-be colonist blew upon the embers and filled +and heated the kettle, that he might be able to welcome Isopel with +a cup of the beverage that she loved. It was the newly awakened +Benedick brushing his hat in the morning; but unhappily his conversion +was not so complete as Benedick’s. Love-making and Armenian +do not go together, and in the colloquy that ensued, Belle could not +feel assured that the man who proposed to conjugate the verb “to +love” in Armenian, was master of his intentions in plain English. +It was even so. The man of tongues lacked speech wherewith to +make manifest his passion; the vocabulary of the word-master was insufficient +to convince the workhouse girl of one of the plainest meanings a man +can well have. From the banter of the man of learning the queen +of the dingle sought refuge in a precipitate flight. Almost simultaneously +the word-master, albeit with reluctance, decided that it was high time +to give over his “mocking and scoffing.” When he returned +with this resolve to the dingle, Isopel Berners had quitted it, never +to return.</p> +<p>Yet ever and anon that splendid and pathetic figure <!-- page 56--><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>will +cross the sky line of his mental vision—and of ours. “Then +the image of Isopel Berners came into my mind,” and the thought +“how I had lost her for ever, and how happy I might have been +with her in the New World.”</p> +<h2><!-- page 57--><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>DWELLERS +IN THE DINGLE,<br /> +AND SOME OTHERS.</h2> +<h3>MEN.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Lavengro</span>, <i>the autobiographer</i>, <i>scholar +and philologist</i> (Lavengro=<i>word-master</i>); <i>known among the +road-faring folk as the Romany rye</i>, <i>or young squire turned gypsy</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jasper Petulengro</span>, <i>a Romany kral or +tribal chief</i>, <i>horse-dealer and blacksmith</i> (petulengro=<i>lord +of the horseshoe</i>). “<i>The Gypsy</i>.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fraser</span>, <i>a popish emissary or propagandist</i>, +<i>known as the</i> “<i>man in black</i>.” “<i>The +Priest</i>.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tawno Chikno</span>, <i>the little one</i>, <i>so +called on account of his immense size</i>; <i>the</i> “<i>Antinous +of the dusky people</i>;” <i>a great horseman and</i> <span class="smcap">Jasper’s</span> +<i>brother-in-law</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sylvester</span>, <i>another brother-in-law</i>, +<i>an ill-conditioned fellow</i>, “<i>the Lazarus of the Romany +tribe</i>.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Black</span> <i>or</i> <span class="smcap">Blazing +John Bosville</span> (<i>Anselo Herne</i>), “<i>the flaming tinman</i>” +<i>a</i> “<i>half-in-half</i>” <i>itinerant tinker and bruiser</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Catchpole</span>, <i>the landlord of a small +inn</i>, <i>two miles from the Dingle</i>, <i>and not far from Willenhall +in Staffordshire</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Hunter</span>, <i>a radical</i>, <i>who wears +a snuff-coloured coat and frequents the inn above named</i>.</p> +<p><i>A postilion</i>, <i>whose headquarters are The Swan</i>, <i>Stafford</i>.</p> +<h3>WOMEN.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Isopel</span> <i>or</i> <span class="smcap">Belle +Berners</span>, <i>the beauteous queen of the Dingle</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Grey Moll</span>, <i>wife of</i> <span class="smcap">Bosville</span>, +<i>the flying tinker</i>.</p> +<p><i>A niece of the landlord of the inn</i>.</p> +<p><i>The three daughters of Mrs. Herne</i>:—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pakomovna</span>, (<span class="smcap">Mrs</span>.) +<span class="smcap">Petulengro</span>,</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mikailia</span>, (<span class="smcap">Mrs</span>.) +<span class="smcap">Chikno</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ursula</span>, <i>widow of</i> <span class="smcap">Launcelot +Lovell</span>, <i>who subsequently marries</i> <span class="smcap">Sylvester</span>.</p> +<h3>ANIMALS.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Ambrol</span> (<i>in gypsy</i>=<i>a pear</i>),<span class="smcap"> +Lavengro’s</span> <i>little gry or pony</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Traveller</span>, <i>a donkey</i> (<i>gypsy</i>, +<i>mailla</i>), <i>belonging to</i> <span class="smcap">Isopel Berners</span>.</p> +<p><!-- page 58--><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span><span class="smcap">The +Scene</span> <i>is laid under the greenwood tree</i>, <i>in the height +of an English summer</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Dingle</span> <i>is a deep</i>, <i>wooded</i>, +<i>and consequently somewhat gloomy</i>, <i>hollow in the middle of +a very large</i>, <i>desolate field</i>. <i>The shelving sides +of the hollow are overgrown with trees and bushes. A belt of sallows +crowns the circular edge of the small crater</i>. <i>At the lowest +part of the Dingle are discovered a stone and a fire of charcoal</i>, +<i>from which spot a winding path ascends to</i> “<i>the plain</i>.” +<i>On either side of the fire is a small encampment. One consists +of a small pony cart and a small hut-shaped tent</i>, <i>occupied by +the word-master</i>. <i>On the other side is erected a kind of +tent</i>, <i>consisting of large hoops covered over with tarpaulin</i>, +<i>quite impenetrable to rain; hard by stands a small donkey-cart</i>. +<i>This is</i> “<i>the tabernacle</i>” <i>of</i> <span class="smcap">Isopel +Berners</span>. <i>A short distance off</i>, <i>near a spring +of clear water</i>, <i>is the encampment of the Romany chals and chies—the +Petulengres and their small clan</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Place</span> <i>is about five miles from +Willenhall in Staffordshire</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Time</span> <i>is July</i> 1825.</p> +<h2><!-- page 59--><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>CHAPTER +I—THE SCHOLAR SAYS GOOD-BYE TO THE GYPSY, AND PITCHES HIS TENT +IN THE DINGLE.</h2> +<p>[In May 1825 our autobiographer, known among the gypsies as the word-master, +decided to leave London, and travelled, partly on foot and partly by +coach, to Amesbury; and then, after two days at Salisbury, struck northwards. +A few days later, in a small beer-house, he met a tinker and his wife; +the tinker was greatly depressed, having recently been intimidated by +a rival, one Bosville, “the flaming tinman,” and forced +by threats to quit the road. The word-master, who meditated passing +the summer as an amateur vagrant, and had some £15 or £16 +in his pocket, conceived the idea of buying the pony-cart, the implements +and the beat of the tinker, one Jack Slingsby, whose face he remembered +having seen some ten years before. “I want a home and work,” +he said to the tinker. “As for a home, I suppose I can contrive +to make a home out of your tent and cart; and as for work, I must learn +to be a tinker; it would not be hard for one of my trade to be a tinker: +what better can I do?” “What about the naming tinman?” +said the tinker. “Oh, don’t be afraid on my account,” +said the word-master: “if I were to meet him, I could easily manage +him one way or the other: I know all kinds of strange words and names, +and, as I told you before, I sometimes hit people when they put me out.”</p> +<p><!-- page 60--><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>He +accordingly purchases Slingsby’s property, and further invests +in a waggoner’s frock. To the pony he gives the name of +Ambrol, which signifies in gypsy a pear. He spends a first night +under the hedge in a drizzling rain, and then spends two or three days +in endeavouring to teach himself the mysteries of his new trade. +While living in this solitary way he is detected by Mrs. Herne, an old +gypsy woman, “one of the hairy ones,” as she terms herself, +who carried “a good deal of devil’s tinder” about +with her, and had a bitter grudge against the word-master. She +hated him for having wormed himself, as she fancied, into the confidence +of the gypsies and learned their language. She regarded him further, +as the cause of differences between herself and her sons-in-law—as +an apple of discord in the Romany camp. She employed her grandchild, +Leonora, to open relations in a friendly way with Lavengro, and then +to persuade him to eat of a “drabbed” of poisoned cake. +Lavengro was grievously sick, but was saved in the nick of time by the +appearance upon the scene of a Welsh preacher, Peter Williams, and his +wife—two good souls who wandered over all Wales and the greater +part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine, +and doing all the good they could. They never slept beneath a +roof, unless the weather was very severe. The preacher had a heavy +burden upon his mind, to wit, “the sin against the Holy Ghost,” +committed when he was but a lad. Lavengro journeys for several +days with the preacher and his wife, assuring the former that in common +with most other boys he himself, when of tender years, had committed +twenty such sins and felt no uneasiness about them. The young +man’s conversation had the effect of greatly lightening the despair +of the old preacher. The latter begged the word-master to accompany +him into Wales. On the border, however, Lavengro encountered a +gypsy pal of his youthful days, Jasper Petulengro, and turned back with +him. Mr. Petulengro informs him of the end of his old enemy, Mrs. +Herne. Baffled in her designs against the stranger, the old woman +had hanged herself.</p> +<p>“You observe, brother,” said Petulengro, springing from +his horse, “there is a point at present between us. There +can be no doubt that you are the cause of Mrs. Herne’s death—innocently, +you <!-- page 61--><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>will +say, but still the cause. Now I shouldn’t like it to be +known that I went up and down the country with a pal who was the cause +of my mother-in-law’s death: that is to say, unless he gave me +satisfaction.” So they fell to with their naked fists on +a broad strip of grass in the shade under some lofty trees. In +half an hour’s time Lavengro’s face was covered with blood, +whereupon Mr. Petulengro exclaimed, “Put your hands down, brother: +I’m satisfied; blood has been shed, which is all that can be expected +for an old woman who carried so much brimstone about with her as Mrs. +Herne.”]</p> +<p>So we resumed our route, Mr. Petulengro sitting sideways on his horse, +and I driving my little pony-cart; and when we had proceeded about three +miles, we came to a small public-house, which bore the sign of the “Silent +Woman,” where we stopped to refresh our cattle and ourselves; +and as we sat over our bread and ale, it came to pass that Mr. Petulengro +asked me various questions, and amongst others, how I intended to dispose +of myself. I told him that I did not know; whereupon, with considerable +frankness, he invited me to his camp, and told me that if I chose to +settle down amongst them, and become a Rommany chal, <a name="citation61"></a><a href="#footnote61">{61}</a> +I should have his wife’s sister, Ursula, who was still unmarried, +and occasionally talked of me.</p> +<p>I declined his offer, assigning as a reason the recent death of Mrs. +Herne, of which I was the cause, although innocent. “A pretty +life I should lead with those two,” said I, “when they came +to know it.” “Pooh,” said Mr. Petulengro, “they +will never know it. I shan’t blab, and as for Leonora, that +girl has a head on her <!-- page 62--><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>shoulder’s.” +“Unlike the woman in the sign,” said I, “whose head +is cut off. You speak nonsense, Mr. Petulengro: as long as a woman +has a head on her shoulders she’ll talk,—but, leaving women +out of the case, it is impossible to keep anything a secret; an old +master of mine told me so long ago. I have moreover another reason +for declining your offer. I am at present not disposed for society. +I am become fond of solitude. I wish I could find some quiet place +to which I could retire to hold communion with my own thoughts, and +practise, if I thought fit, either of my trades.” “What +trades?” said Mr. Petulengro. “Why, the one which +I have lately been engaged in, or my original one, which I confess I +should like better, that of a kaulomescro.” <a name="citation62"></a><a href="#footnote62">{62}</a> +“Ah, I have frequently heard you talk of making horseshoes,” +said Mr. Petulengro. “I, however, never saw you make one, +and no one else that I am aware, I don’t believe. Come, +brother, don’t be angry,—it’s quite possible that +you may have done things which neither I nor any one else has seen you +do, and that such things may some day or other come to light, as you +say nothing can be kept secret. Be that, however, as it may, pay +the reckoning, and let us be going. I think I can advise you to +just such a kind of place as you seem to want.”</p> +<p>“And how do you know that I have got wherewithal to pay the +reckoning?” I demanded. “Brother,” said Mr. +Petulengro, “I was just now looking in your face, which exhibited +the very look of a person <!-- page 63--><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>conscious +of the possession of property; there was nothing hungry or sneaking +in it. Pay the reckoning, brother.”</p> +<p>And when we were once more upon the road Mr. Petulengro began to +talk of the place which he conceived would serve me as a retreat under +present circumstances. “I tell you frankly, brother, that +it is a queer kind of place, and I am not very fond of pitching my tent +in it, it is so surprisingly dreary. It is a deep dingle in the +midst of a large field, on an estate about which there has been a lawsuit +for some years past. I daresay you will be quiet enough, for the +nearest town is five miles distant, and there are only a few huts and +hedge public-houses in the neighbourhood. Brother, I am fond of +solitude myself, but not that kind of solitude: I like a quiet heath, +where I can pitch my house, but I always like to have a gay stirring +place not far off, where the women can pen dukkerin, <a name="citation63a"></a><a href="#footnote63a">{63a}</a> +and I myself can sell or buy a horse, if needful—such a place +as the Chong Gav. <a name="citation63b"></a><a href="#footnote63b">{63b}</a> +I never feel so merry as when there, brother, or on the heath above +it, where I taught you Rommany.”</p> +<p>Shortly after this discourse we reached a milestone, and a few yards +from the milestone, on the left hand, was a cross-road. Thereupon +Mr. Petulengro said, “Brother, my path lies to the left; if you +choose to go with me to my camp, good; if not, Chal Devlehi.” +<a name="citation63c"></a><a href="#footnote63c">{63c}</a> But +I again refused Mr. Petulengro’s invitation, and, shaking him +by the hand, proceeded <!-- page 64--><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>forward +alone, and about ten miles farther on I reached the town of which he +had spoken, and following certain directions which he had given, discovered, +though not without some difficulty, the dingle which he had mentioned. +It was a deep hollow in the midst of a wide field, the shelving sides +were overgrown with trees and bushes, a belt of sallows surrounded it +on the top, a steep winding path led down into the depths, practicable, +however, for a light cart, like mine; at the bottom was an open space, +and there I pitched my tent, and there I contrived to put up my forge, +“I will here ply the trade of kaulomescro,” <a name="citation64"></a><a href="#footnote64">{64}</a> +said I.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER II—THE SHOEING OF AMBROL.</h2> +<p>It has always struck me that there is something highly poetical about +a forge. I am not singular in this opinion: various individuals +have assured me that they never pass by one, even in the midst of a +crowded town, without experiencing sensations which they can scarcely +define, but which are highly pleasurable. I have a decided penchant +for forges, especially rural ones placed in some quaint quiet spot—a +dingle, for example, which is a poetical place, or at a meeting of four +roads, which is still more so; for how many a superstition—and +superstition is the soul of poetry—is connected with these cross +roads! I love to light upon such a one, especially after nightfall, +as everything about <!-- page 65--><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>a +forge tells to most advantage at night; the hammer sounds more solemnly +in the stillness, the glowing particles scattered by the stroke sparkle +with more effect in the darkness, whilst the sooty visage of the sastramescro, +<a name="citation65a"></a><a href="#footnote65a">{65a}</a> half in shadow, +and half illumined by the red and partial blaze of the forge, looks +more mysterious and strange. On such occasions I draw in my horse’s +rein, and, seated in the saddle, endeavour to associate with the picture +before me—in itself a picture of romance—whatever of the +wild and wonderful I have read of in books, or have seen with mine own +eyes in connection with forges.</p> +<p>I believe the life of any blacksmith, especially a rural one, would +afford materials for a highly poetical history. I do not speak +unadvisedly, having the honour to be free of the forge, and therefore +fully competent to give an opinion as to what might be made out of the +forge by some dextrous hand. Certainly, the strangest and most +entertaining life ever written is that of a blacksmith of the olden +north, a certain Volundr, or Velint, <a name="citation65b"></a><a href="#footnote65b">{65b}</a> +who lived in woods and thickets, made keen swords,—so keen, indeed, +that if placed by a running stream, they would fairly divide an object, +however slight, which was borne against them by the water—and +who eventually married a king’s daughter, by whom he had a son, +who was as bold a knight as his father was a cunning blacksmith. +I never see a forge at night, when seated on the back of my horse at +the bottom of a dark lane, but I somehow or other associate it <!-- page 66--><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>with +the exploits of this extraordinary fellow, with many other extraordinary +things, amongst which, as I have hinted before, are particular passages +of my own life, one or two of which I shall perhaps relate to the reader.</p> +<p>I never associate Vulcan and his Cyclops with the idea of a forge. +These gentry would be the very last people in the world to flit across +my mind whilst gazing at the forge from the bottom of the dark lane. +The truth is, they are highly unpoetical fellows, as well they may be, +connected as they are with Grecian mythology. At the very mention +of their names the forge burns dull and dim, as if snowballs had been +suddenly flung into it; the only remedy is to ply the bellows, an operation +which I now hasten to perform.</p> +<p>I am in the dingle making a horseshoe. Having no other horses +on whose hoofs I could exercise my art, I made my first essay on those +of my own horse, if that could be called horse which horse was none, +being only a pony. Perhaps if I had sought all England I should +scarcely have found an animal more in need of the kind offices of the +smith. On three of his feet there were no shoes at all, and on +the fourth only a remnant of one, on which account his hoofs were sadly +broken and lacerated by his late journeys over the hard and flinty roads. +“You belonged to a tinker before,” said I, addressing the +animal, “but now you belong to a smith. It is said that +the household of the shoemaker invariably go worse shod than that of +any other craft. That may be the case of those who make shoes +of leather, but it shan’t be said of the <!-- page 67--><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>household +of him who makes shoes of iron; at any rate, it shan’t be said +of mine. I tell you what, my gry, <a name="citation67a"></a><a href="#footnote67a">{67a}</a> +whilst you continue with me, you shall both be better shod, and better +fed, than you were with your late master.”</p> +<p>I am in the dingle making a petul; <a name="citation67b"></a><a href="#footnote67b">{67b}</a> +and I must here observe, that whilst I am making a horseshoe, the reader +need not be surprised if I speak occasionally in the language of the +lord of the horseshoe—Mr. Petulengro. I have for some time +past been plying the peshota, or bellows, endeavouring to raise up the +yag, or fire, in my primitive forge. The angar, or coals, are +now burning fiercely, casting forth sparks and long vagescoe chipes, +or tongues of flame; a small bar of sastra, or iron, is lying in the +fire, to the length of ten or twelve inches, and so far it is hot, very +hot, exceeding hot, brother. And now you see me prala, snatch +the bar of iron, and place the heated end of it upon the covantza, or +anvil, and forthwith I commence cooring <a name="citation67c"></a><a href="#footnote67c">{67c}</a> +the sastra as hard as if I had been just engaged by a master at the +rate of dui caulor, or two shillings a day, brother; and when I have +beaten the iron till it is nearly cool, and my arm tired, I place it +again in the angar, and begin again to rouse the fire with the pudomengro, +which signifies the blowing thing, and is another and more common word +for bellows, and whilst thus employed I sing a gypsy song, the sound +of which is wonderfully in unison with the hoarse moaning of the pudamengro, +and ere the song is finished, the iron is again hot and malleable. +Behold, <!-- page 68--><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>I +place it once more on the covantza, and recommence hammering; and now +I am somewhat at fault: I am in want of assistance; I want you, brother, +or some one else, to take the bar out of my hand and support it upon +the covantza, whilst I, applying a chinomescro, or kind of chisel, to +the heated iron, cut off with a lusty stroke or two of the shukaro baro, +or big hammer, as much as is required for the petul. But having +no one to help me, I go on hammering till I have fairly knocked off +as much as I want, and then I place the piece in the fire, and again +apply the bellows, and take up the song where I left it off; and when +I have finished the song, I take out the iron, but this time with my +plaistra, or pincers, and then I recommence hammering, turning the iron +round and round with my pincers: and now I bend the iron, and lo, and +behold, it has assumed something the outline of a petul.</p> +<p>I am not going to enter into farther details with respect to the +process—it was rather a wearisome one. I had to contend +with various disadvantages: my forge was a rude one, my tools might +have been better; I was in want of one or two highly necessary implements, +but, above all, manual dexterity. Though free of the forge, I +had not practised the albeytarian art for very many years, never since—but +stay, it is not my intention to tell the reader, at least in this place, +how and when I became a blacksmith. There was one thing, however, +which stood me in good stead in my labour, the same thing which through +life has ever been of incalculable utility to me, and has not unfrequently +supplied the <!-- page 69--><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>place +of friends, money, and many other things of almost equal importance—iron +perseverance, without which all the advantages of time and circumstances +are of very little avail in any undertaking. I was determined +to make a horseshoe, and a good one, in spite of every obstacle—ay, +in spite o’ dukkerin. At the end of four days, during which +I had fashioned and re-fashioned the thing at least fifty times, I had +made a petul such as no master of the craft need have been ashamed of; +with the second shoe I had less difficulty, and, by the time I had made +the fourth, I would have scorned to take off my hat to the best smith +in Cheshire.</p> +<p>But I had not yet shod my little gry; <a name="citation69a"></a><a href="#footnote69a">{69a}</a> +this I proceeded now to do. After having first well pared the +hoofs with my churi, <a name="citation69b"></a><a href="#footnote69b">{69b}</a> +I applied each petul hot, glowing hot to the pindro. <a name="citation69c"></a><a href="#footnote69c">{69c}</a> +Oh, how the hoofs hissed; and, oh, the pleasant pungent odour which +diffused itself through the dingle, an odour good for an ailing spirit!</p> +<p>I shoed the little horse bravely—merely pricked him once, slightly +with a cafi, <a name="citation69d"></a><a href="#footnote69d">{69d}</a> +for doing which, I remember, he kicked me down; I was not disconcerted, +however, but, getting up, promised to be more cautious in future; and +having finished the operation, I filed the hoof well with the rin baro; +<a name="citation69e"></a><a href="#footnote69e">{69e}</a> then dismissed +him to graze amongst the trees, and, putting my smaller tools into the +muchtar, <a name="citation69f"></a><a href="#footnote69f">{69f}</a> +I sat down on my stone, and, supporting my arm upon my knee, leaned +my head upon my hand. Heaviness had come over me.</p> +<h2><!-- page 70--><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>CHAPTER +III—THE DARK HOUR COMES UPON LAVENGRO AND HIS SOUL IS HEAVY WITHIN +HIM.</h2> +<p>Heaviness had suddenly come over me, heaviness of heart, and of body +also. I had accomplished the task which I had imposed upon myself, +and now that nothing more remained to do, my energies suddenly deserted +me, and I felt without strength and without hope. Several causes, +perhaps, co-operated to bring about the state in which I then felt myself. +It is not improbable that my energies had been overstrained during the +work, the progress of which I have attempted to describe; and everyone +is aware that the results of overstrained energies are feebleness and +lassitude—want of nourishment might likewise have something to +do with it. During my sojourn in the dingle, my food had been +of the simplest and most unsatisfying description, by no means calculated +to support the exertion which the labour I had been engaged upon required; +it had consisted of coarse oaten cakes and hard cheese, and for beverage +I had been indebted to a neighbouring pit, in which, in the heat of +the day, I frequently saw, not golden or silver fish, but frogs and +eftes swimming about. I am, however, inclined to believe that +Mrs. Herne’s cake had quite as much to do with the matter as insufficient +nourishment. I had never entirely recovered from the effects of +its poison, but had occasionally, especially at night, been visited +by <!-- page 71--><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>a +grinding pain in the stomach, and my whole body had been suffused with +cold sweat; and indeed these memorials of the drow <a name="citation71"></a><a href="#footnote71">{71}</a> +have never entirely disappeared—even at the present time they +display themselves in my system, especially after much fatigue of body +and excitement of mind. So there I sat in the dingle upon my stone, +nerveless and hopeless, by whatever cause or causes that state had been +produced—there I sat with my head leaning upon my hand, and so +I continued a long, long time. At last I lifted my head from my +hand, and began to cast anxious, unquiet looks about the dingle—the +entire hollow was now enveloped in deep shade—I cast my eyes up; +there was a golden gleam on the tops of the trees which grew towards +the upper parts of the dingle; but lower down, all was gloom and twilight—yet, +when I first sat down on my stone, the sun was right above the dingle, +illuminating all its depths by the rays which it cast perpendicularly +down—so I must have sat a long, long time upon my stone. +And now, once more, I rested my head upon my hand, but almost instantly +lifted it again in a kind of fear, and began looking at the objects +before me—the forge, the tools, the branches of the trees, endeavouring +to follow their rows, till they were lost in the darkness of the dingle. +And now I found my right hand grasping convulsively three forefingers +of the left, first collectively, and then successively, wringing them +till the joints cracked; then I became quiet, but not for long.</p> +<p>Suddenly I started up, and could scarcely repress <!-- page 72--><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>the +shriek which was rising to my lips. Was it possible? Yes, +all too certain: the evil one was upon me; the inscrutable horror which +I had felt in my boyhood had once more taken possession of me. +I had thought that it had forsaken me; that it would never visit me +again; that I had outgrown it; that I might almost bid defiance to it; +and I had even begun to think of it without horror, as we are in the +habit of doing of horrors of which we conceive we run no danger; and +lo! when least thought of, it had seized me again. Every moment +I felt it gathering force, and making me more wholly its own. +What should I do?—resist, of course; and I did resist. I +grasped, I tore, and strove to fling it from me; but of what avail were +my efforts? I could only have got rid of it by getting rid of +myself: it was a part of myself, or rather it was all myself. +I rushed amongst the trees, and struck at them with my bare fists, and +dashed my head against them, but I felt no pain. How could I feel +pain with that horror upon me! and then I flung myself on the ground, +gnawed the earth, and swallowed it; and then I looked round: it was +almost total darkness in the dingle, and the darkness added to my horror. +I could no longer stay there; up I rose from the ground, and attempted +to escape; at the bottom of the winding path which led up the acclivity +I fell over something which was lying on the ground; the something moved, +and gave a kind of whine. It was my little horse, which had made +that place its lair—my little horse, my only companion <!-- page 73--><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>and +friend, in that now awful solitude. I reached the mouth of the +dingle; the sun was just sinking in the far west, behind me; the fields +were flooded with his last gleams. How beautiful everything looked +in the last gleams of the sun! I felt relieved for a moment; I +was no longer in the horrid dingle; in another minute the sun was gone, +and a big cloud occupied the place where he had been; in a little time +it was almost as dark as it had previously been in the open part of +the dingle. My horror increased; what was I to do!—it was +of no use fighting against the horror—that I saw; the more I fought +against it, the stronger it became. What should I do? say my prayers? +Ah! why not? So I knelt down under the hedge, and said, “Our +Father”; but that was of no use; and now I could no longer repress +cries; the horror was too great to be borne. What should I do: +run to the nearest town or village, and request the assistance of my +fellow-men? No! that I was ashamed to do; notwithstanding the +horror was upon me, I was ashamed to do that. I knew they would +consider me a maniac if I went screaming amongst them; and I did not +wish to be considered a maniac. Moreover, I knew that I was not +a maniac for I possessed all my reasoning powers, only the horror was +upon me—the screaming horror! But how were indifferent people +to distinguish between madness and this screaming horror? So I +thought and reasoned; and at last I determined not to go amongst my +fellow-men, whatever the result might be. I went to the mouth +of the dingle, <!-- page 74--><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>and +there, placing myself on my knees, I again said the Lord’s Prayer; +but it was of no use; praying seemed to have no effect over the horror; +the unutterable fear appeared rather to increase than diminish; and +I again uttered wild cries, so loud that I was apprehensive they would +be heard by some chance passenger on the neighbouring road; I, therefore, +went deeper into the dingle; I sat down with my back against a thorn +bush; the thorns entered my flesh; and when I felt them, I pressed harder +against the bush; I thought the pain of the flesh might in some degree +counteract the mental agony; presently I felt them no longer; the power +of the mental horror was so great that it was impossible, with that +upon me, to feel any pain from the thorns. I continued in this +posture a long time, undergoing what I cannot describe, and would not +attempt if I were able. Several times I was on the point of starting +up and rushing anywhere; but I restrained myself, for I knew I could +not escape from myself, so why should I not remain in the dingle? +So I thought and said to myself, for my reasoning powers were still +uninjured. At last it appeared to me that the horror was not so +strong, not quite so strong upon me. Was it possible that it was +relaxing its grasp, releasing its prey? O what a mercy! but it +could not be—and yet I looked up to heaven, and clasped my hands, +and said, “Our Father.” I said no more; I was too +agitated; and now I was almost sure that the horror had done its worst.</p> +<p>After a little time I arose, and staggered down yet <!-- page 75--><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>farther +into the dingle. I again found my little horse on the same spot +as before. I put my hand to his mouth; he licked my hand. +I flung myself down by him and put my arms round his neck; the creature +whinnied, and appeared to sympathize with me; what a comfort to have +any one, even a dumb brute, to sympathize with me at such a moment! +I clung to my little horse, as if for safety and protection. I +laid my head on his neck, and felt almost calm; presently the fear returned, +but not so wild as before; it subsided, came again, again subsided; +then drowsiness came over me, and at last I fell asleep, my head supported +on the neck of the little horse. I awoke; it was dark, dark night—not +a star was to be seen—but I felt no fear, the horror had left +me. I arose from the side of the little horse, and went into my +tent, lay down, and again went to sleep.</p> +<p>I awoke in the morning weak and sore, and shuddering at the remembrance +of what I had gone through on the preceding day. The sun was shining +brightly, but it had not yet risen high enough to show its head above +the trees which fenced the eastern side of the dingle, on which account +the dingle was wet and dank, from the dews of the night. I kindled +my fire, and, after sitting by it for some time to warm my frame, I +took some of the coarse food which I have already mentioned; notwithstanding +my late struggle, and the coarseness of the fare, I ate with appetite. +My provisions had by this time been very much diminished, and I saw +that it would be speedily <!-- page 76--><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>necessary, +in the event of my continuing to reside in the dingle, to lay in a fresh +store. After my meal I went to the pit, and filled a can with +water, which I brought to the dingle, and then again sat down on my +stone. I considered what I should next do: it was necessary to +do something, or my life in this solitude would be unsupportable. +What should I do? rouse up my forge and fashion a horseshoe; but I wanted +nerve and heart for such an employment; moreover, I had no motive for +fatiguing myself in this manner; my own horse was shod, no other was +at hand, and it is hard to work for the sake of working. What +should I do? read? Yes, but I had no other book than the Bible +which the Welsh Methodist had given me: well, why not read the Bible? +I was once fond of reading the Bible; ay, but those days were long gone +by. However, I did not see what else I could do on the present +occasion—so I determined to read the Bible—it was in Welsh; +at any rate it might amuse me, so I took the Bible out of the sack, +in which it was lying in the cart, and began to read at the place where +I chanced to open it. I opened it at the part where the history +of Saul commences. At first I read with indifference, but after +some time my attention was riveted. And no wonder: I had come +to the visitations of Saul, those dark moments of his, when he did and +said such unaccountable things; it almost appeared to me that I was +reading of myself; I, too, had my visitations, dark as ever his were. +O, how I sympathized with Saul, the tall dark man! I had read +his life <!-- page 77--><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>before, +but it had made no impression on me; it had never occurred to me that +I was like him, but I now sympathized with Saul, for my own dark hour +was but recently passed, and, perhaps, would soon return again; the +dark hour came frequently on Saul.</p> +<p>Time wore away; I finished the book of Saul, and, closing the volume, +returned it to its place. I then returned to my seat on the stone, +and thought of what I had read, and what I had lately undergone. +All at once I thought I felt well-known sensations—a cramping +of the breast, and a tingling of the soles of the feet—they were +what I had felt on the preceding day; they were the forerunners of the +fear. I sat motionless on my stone; the sensations passed away, +and the fear came not. Darkness was now coming again over the +earth; the dingle was again in deep shade. I roused the fire with +the breath of the bellows, and sat looking at the cheerful glow; it +was cheering and comforting. My little horse came now and lay +down on the ground beside the forge; I was not quite deserted. +I again ate some of the coarse food, and drank plentifully of the water +which I had fetched in the morning. I then put fresh fuel on the +fire, and sat for a long time looking on the blaze; I then went into +my tent.</p> +<p>I awoke, on my own calculation, about midnight—it was pitch +dark, and there was much fear upon me.</p> +<h2><!-- page 78--><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>CHAPTER +IV.—A CLASSICAL ENCOUNTER—LONG MELFORD TO THE RESCUE.</h2> +<p>Two mornings after the period to which I have brought the reader +in the preceding chapter, I sat by my fire at the bottom of the dingle. +I had just breakfasted, and had finished the last morsel of food which +I had brought with me to that solitude.</p> +<p>“What shall I now do?” said I to myself: “shall +I continue here, or decamp? This is a sad lonely spot—perhaps +I had better quit it; but whither should I go? the wide world is before +me, but what can I do therein? I have been in the world already +without much success. No, I had better remain here; the place +is lonely, it is true, but here I am free and independent, and can do +what I please; but I can’t remain here without food. Well, +I will find my way to the nearest town, lay in a fresh supply of provision, +and come back, turning my back upon the world, which has turned its +back upon me. I don’t see why I should not write a little +sometimes; I have pens and an ink-horn, and for a writing-desk I can +place the Bible on my knee. I shouldn’t wonder if I could +write a capital satire on the world on the back of that Bible; but first +of all I must think of supplying myself with food.”</p> +<p>I rose up from the stone on which I was seated, determining to go +to the nearest town, with my little horse and cart and procure what +I wanted. The nearest <!-- page 79--><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>town, +according to my best calculation, lay about five miles distant; I had +no doubt, however, that by using ordinary diligence, I should be back +before evening. In order to go lighter, I determined to leave +my tent standing as it was, and all the things which I had purchased +of the tinker, just as they were. “I need not be apprehensive +on their account,” said I to myself; “nobody will come here +to meddle with them—the great recommendation of this place is +its perfect solitude—I dare say that I could live here six months +without seeing a single human visage. I will now harness my little +gry and be off to the town.”</p> +<p>At a whistle which I gave, the little gry, which was feeding on the +bank near the uppermost part of the dingle, came running to me, for +by this time he had become so accustomed to me that he would obey my +call for all the world as if he had been one of the canine species. +“Now,” said I to him, “we are going to the town to +buy bread for myself, and oats for you—I am in a hurry to be back; +therefore, I pray you to do your best, and to draw me and the cart to +the town with all possible speed, and to bring us back; if you do your +best, I promise you oats on your return. You know the meaning +of oats, Ambrol?”</p> +<p>Ambrol whinnied as if to let me know that he understood me perfectly +well, as indeed he well might, as I had never once fed him during the +time he had been in my possession without saying the word in question +to him. Now, Ambrol, in the Gypsy tongue, signifieth a pear.</p> +<p><!-- page 80--><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>So +I caparisoned Ambrol, and then, going to the cart, removed two or three +things from out it into the tent; I then lifted up the shafts, and was +just going to call to the pony to come and be fastened to them, when +I thought I heard a noise.</p> +<p>I stood stock still, supporting the shaft of the little cart in my +hand, and bending the right side of my face slightly towards the ground; +but I could hear nothing. The noise which I thought I had heard +was not one of those sounds which I was accustomed to hear in that solitude—the +note of a bird, or the rustling of a bough; it was—there I heard +it again—a sound very much resembling the grating of a wheel amongst +gravel. Could it proceed from the road? Oh no, the road +was too far distant for me to hear the noise of anything moving along +it. Again I listened, and now I distinctly heard the sound of +wheels, which seemed to be approaching the dingle; nearer and nearer +they drew, and presently the sound of wheels was blended with the murmur +of voices. Anon I heard a boisterous shout, which seemed to proceed +from the entrance of the dingle. “Here are folks at hand,” +said I, letting the shaft of the cart fall to the ground: “is +it possible that they can be coming here?”</p> +<p>My doubts on that point, if I entertained any, were soon dispelled: +the wheels, which had ceased moving for a moment or two, were once again +in motion, and were now evidently moving down the winding path which +led to my retreat. Leaving my cart, I came forward and placed +myself near the entrance of the <!-- page 81--><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>open +space, with my eyes fixed on the path down which my unexpected and I +may say unwelcome visitors were coming. Presently I heard a stamping +or sliding, as if of a horse in some difficulty; and then a loud curse, +and the next moment appeared a man and a horse and cart; the former +holding the head of the horse up to prevent him from falling, of which +he was in danger, owing to the precipitous nature of the path. +Whilst thus occupied, the head of the man was averted from me. +When, however, he had reached the bottom of the descent, he turned his +head, and perceiving me, as I stood bareheaded, without either coat +or waistcoat, about two yards from him, he gave a sudden start, so violent +that the backward motion of his hand had nearly flung the horse upon +his haunches.</p> +<p>“Why don’t you move forward?” said a voice from +behind, apparently that of a female; “you are stopping up the +way, and we shall be all down upon one another;” and I saw the +head of another horse overtopping the back of the cart.</p> +<p>“Why don’t you move forward, Jack?” said another +voice, also of a female, yet higher up the path.</p> +<p>The man stirred not, but remained staring at me in the posture which +he had assumed on first perceiving me, his body very much drawn back, +his left foot far in advance of his right, and with his right hand still +grasping the halter of the horse, which gave way more and more, till +it was clean down on its haunches.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter?” said the voice which I had +last heard.</p> +<p><!-- page 82--><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>“Get +back with you, Belle, Moll,” said the man, still staring at me: +“here’s something not over-canny or comfortable here.”</p> +<p>“What is it?” said the same voice; “let me pass, +Moll, and I’ll soon clear the way,” and I heard a kind of +rushing down the path.</p> +<p>“You need not be afraid,” said I, addressing myself to +the man,—“I mean you no harm; I am a wanderer like yourself—-come +here to seek for shelter—you need not be afraid; I am a Rome chabo +<a name="citation82"></a><a href="#footnote82">{82}</a> by matriculation—one +of the right sort, and no mistake. Good day to ye, brother; I +bids ye welcome.”</p> +<p>The man eyed me suspiciously for a moment—then, turning to +his horse with a loud curse, he pulled him up from his haunches, and +led him and the cart farther down to one side of the dingle, muttering +as he passed me, “Afraid? Hm!”</p> +<p>I do not remember ever to have seen a more ruffianly-looking fellow: +he was about six feet high, with an immensely athletic frame; his face +was black and bluff, and sported an immense pair of whiskers, but with +here and there a grey hair, for his age could not be much under fifty. +He wore a faded blue frock coat, corduroys, and highlows—on his +black head was a kind of red nightcap, round his bull neck a Barcelona +handkerchief—I did not like the look of the man at all.</p> +<p>“Afraid,” growled the fellow, proceeding to unharness +his horse; “that was the word, I think.”</p> +<p>But other figures were now already upon the scene. Dashing +past the other horse and cart, which by this <!-- page 83--><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>time +had reached the bottom of the pass, appeared an exceedingly tall woman, +or rather girl, for she could scarcely have been above eighteen; she +was dressed in a tight bodice, and a blue stuff gown; hat, bonnet or +cap she had none, and her hair, which was flaxen, hung down on her shoulders +unconfined; her complexion was fair, and her features handsome, with +a determined but open expression. She was followed by another +female, about forty, stout and vulgar-looking, at whom I scarcely glanced, +my whole attention being absorbed by the tall girl.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter, Jack?” said the latter, looking +at the man.</p> +<p>“Only afraid, that’s all,” said the man, still +proceeding with his work.</p> +<p>“Afraid at what?—at that lad? Why, he looks like +a ghost—I would engage to thrash him with one hand.”</p> +<p>“You might beat me with no hands at all,” said I, “fair +damsel, only by looking at me: I never saw such a face and figure, both +regal—why, you look like Ingeborg, Queen of Norway; she had twelve +brothers, you know, and could lick them all, though they were heroes—</p> +<blockquote><p>“‘On Dovrefeld in Norway,<br /> +Were once together seen,<br /> +The twelve heroic brothers<br /> +Of Ingeborg the queen.’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“None of your chaffing, young fellow,” said the tall +girl, “or I will give you what shall make you wipe your face; +be civil, or you will rue it.”</p> +<p><!-- page 84--><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>“Well, +perhaps I was a peg too high,” said I: “I ask your pardon—here’s +something a bit lower—</p> +<blockquote><p>“‘As I was jawing to the gav yeck divvus +<a name="citation84a"></a><a href="#footnote84a">{84a}</a><br /> +I met on the drom miro Rommany chi—’” <a name="citation84b"></a><a href="#footnote84b">{84b}</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>“None of your Rommany chies, young fellow,” said the +tall girl, looking more menacingly than before, and clenching her fist; +“you had better be civil. I am none of your chies; and, +though I keep company with gypsies or, to speak more proper, half and +halfs, I would have you to know that I come of Christian blood and parents, +and was born in the great house of Long Melford.”</p> +<p>“I have no doubt,” said I, “that it was a great +house; judging from your size, I shouldn’t wonder if you were +born in a church.”</p> +<p>“Stay, Belle,” said the man, putting himself before the +young virago, who was about to rush upon me, “my turn is first.” +Then, advancing to me in a menacing attitude, he said with a look of +deep malignity, “‘Afraid’ was the word, wasn’t +it?”</p> +<p>“It was,” said I, “but I think I wronged you; I +should have said, aghast—you exhibited every symptom of one labouring +under uncontrollable fear.”</p> +<p>The fellow stared at me with a look of stupid ferocity, and appeared +to be hesitating whether to strike or not: ere he could make up his +mind, the tall girl stepped forward, crying, “He’s chaffing; +let me at him!” and, before I could put myself on my guard, <!-- page 85--><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>she +struck me a blow on the face which had nearly brought me to the ground.</p> +<p>“Enough,” said I, putting my hand to my cheek; “you +have now performed your promise, and made me wipe my face: now be pacified, +and tell me fairly the ground of this quarrel.”</p> +<p>“Grounds!” said the fellow; “didn’t you say +I was afraid? and if you hadn’t, who gave you leave to camp on +my ground?”</p> +<p>“Is it your ground?” said I.</p> +<p>“A pretty question,” said the fellow; “as if all +the world didn’t know that. Do you know who I am?”</p> +<p>“I guess I do,” said I; “unless I am much mistaken, +you are he whom folks call the ‘Flaming Tinman.’ To +tell you the truth, I’m glad we have met, for I wished to see +you. These are your two wives, I suppose; I greet them. +There’s no harm done—there’s room enough here for +all of us—we shall soon be good friends, I dare say; and when +we are a little better acquainted, I’ll tell you my history.”</p> +<p>“Well, if that doesn’t beat all!” said the fellow.</p> +<p>“I don’t think he’s chaffing now,” said the +girl, whose anger seemed to have subsided on a sudden; “the young +man speaks civil enough.”</p> +<p>“Civil!” said the fellow, with an oath; “but that’s +just like you: with you it is a blow, and all over. Civil! +I suppose you would have him stay here, and get into all my secrets, +and hear all I may have to say to my two morts.”</p> +<p><!-- page 86--><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>“Two +morts,” <a name="citation86"></a><a href="#footnote86">{86}</a> +said the girl, kindling up—“where are they? Speak +for one, and no more. I am no mort of yours, whatever some one +else may be. I tell you one thing, Black John, or Anselo, for +t’other an’t your name, the same thing I told the young +man here, be civil, or you will rue it.”</p> +<p>The fellow looked at the girl furiously, but his glance soon quailed +before hers; he withdrew his eyes, and cast them on my little horse, +which was feeding amongst the trees. “What’s this?” +said he, rushing forward and seizing the animal. “Why, as +I am alive, this is the horse of that mumping villain Slingsby.”</p> +<p>“It’s his no longer; I bought it and paid for it.”</p> +<p>“It’s mine now,” said the fellow; “I swore +I would seize it the next time I found it on my beat—ay, and beat +the master too.”</p> +<p>“I am not Slingsby.”</p> +<p>“All’s one for that.”</p> +<p>“You don’t say you will beat me?”</p> +<p>“Afraid was the word.”</p> +<p>“I’m sick and feeble.”</p> +<p>“Hold up your fists.”</p> +<p>“Won’t the horse satisfy you?”</p> +<p>“Horse nor bellows either.”</p> +<p>“No mercy, then.”</p> +<p>“Here’s at you.”</p> +<p>“Mind your eyes, Jack. There, you’ve got it. +I thought so,” shouted the girl, as the fellow staggered <!-- page 87--><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>back +from a sharp blow in the eye. “I thought he was chaffing +at you all along.”</p> +<p>“Never mind, Anselo. You know what to do—go in,” +said the vulgar woman, who had hitherto not spoken a word, but who now +came forward with all the look of a fury; “go in, apopli; <a name="citation87"></a><a href="#footnote87">{87}</a> +you’ll smash ten like he.”</p> +<p>The Flaming Tinman took her advice, and came in bent on smashing, +but stopped short on receiving a left-handed blow on the nose.</p> +<p>“You’ll never beat the Flaming Tinman in that way,” +said the girl, looking at me doubtfully.</p> +<p>And so I began to think myself, when, in the twinkling of an eye, +the Flaming Tinman disengaged himself of his frock-coat, and, dashing +off his red nightcap, came rushing in more desperately than ever. +To a flush hit which he received in the mouth he paid as little attention +as a wild bull would have done; in a moment his arms were around me, +and in another, he had hurled me down, falling heavily upon me. +The fellow’s strength appeared to be tremendous.</p> +<p>“Pay him off now,” said the vulgar woman. The Flaming +Tinman made no reply, but planting his knee on my breast, seized my +throat with two huge horny hands. I gave myself up for dead, and +probably should have been so in another minute but for the tall girl, +who caught hold of the handkerchief which the fellow wore round his +neck with a grasp nearly as powerful as that with which he pressed my +throat.</p> +<p>“Do you call that fair play?” said she.</p> +<p><!-- page 88--><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>“Hands +off, Belle,” said the other woman; “do you call it fair +play to interfere? hands off, or I’ll be down upon you myself.”</p> +<p>But Belle paid no heed to the injunction, and tugged so hard at the +handkerchief, that the Flaming Tinman was nearly throttled; suddenly +relinquishing his hold of me, he started on his feet, and aimed a blow +at my fair preserver, who avoided it, but said coolly:—</p> +<p>“Finish t’other business first, and then I’m your +woman whenever you like; but finish it fairly—no foul play when +I’m by—I’ll be the boy’s second, and Moll can +pick you up when he happens to knock you down.”</p> +<p>The battle during the next ten minutes raged with considerable fury, +but it so happened that during this time I was never able to knock the +Flaming Tinman down, but on the contrary received six knock-down blows +myself. “I can never stand this,” said I, as I sat +on the knee of Belle: “I am afraid I must give in; the Flaming +Tinman hits very hard,” and I spat out a mouthful of blood.</p> +<p>“Sure enough you’ll never beat the Flaming Tinman in +the way you fight—it’s of no use flipping at the Flaming +Tinman with your left hand: why don’t you use your right?”</p> +<p>“Because I’m not handy with it,” said I; and then +getting up, I once more confronted the Flaming Tinman, and struck him +six blows for his one, but they were all left-handed blows, and the +blow which the Flaming Tinman gave me knocked me off my legs.</p> +<p><!-- page 89--><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>“Now, +will you use Long Melford?” said Belle, picking me up.</p> +<p>“I don’t know what you mean by Long Melford,” said +I, gasping for breath.</p> +<p>“Why, this long right of yours,” said Belle, feeling +my right arm—“if you do, I shouldn’t wonder if you +yet stand a chance.”</p> +<p>And now the Flaming Tinman was once more ready, much more ready than +myself. I, however, rose from my second’s knee as well as +my weakness would permit me; on he came striking left and right, appearing +almost as fresh as to wind and spirit as when he first commenced the +combat, though his eyes were considerably swelled, and his nether lip +was cut in two; on he came, striking left and right, and I did not like +his blows at all, or even the wind of them, which was anything but agreeable, +and I gave way before him. At last he aimed a blow which, had +it taken full effect, would doubtless have ended the battle, but, owing +to his slipping, the fist only grazed my left shoulder, and came with +terrific force against a tree, close to which I had been driven; before +the Tinman could recover himself, I collected all my strength, and struck +him beneath the ear, and then fell to the ground completely exhausted, +and it so happened that the blow which I struck the Tinker beneath the +ear was a right-handed blow.</p> +<p>“Hurrah for Long Melford!” I heard Belle exclaim; “there +is nothing like Long Melford for shortness all the world over.”</p> +<p><!-- page 90--><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>At +these words, I turned round my head as I lay, and perceived the Flaming +Tinman stretched upon the ground apparently senseless. “He +is dead,” said the vulgar woman, as she vainly endeavoured to +raise him up; “he is dead; the best man in all the north country, +killed in this fashion, by a boy.” Alarmed at these words, +I made shift to get on my feet; and, with the assistance of the woman, +placed my fallen adversary in a sitting posture. I put my hand +to his heart, and felt a slight pulsation. “He’s not +dead,” said I, “only stunned; if he were let blood, he would +recover presently.” I produced a penknife which I had in +my pocket, and, baring the arm of the Tinman, was about to make the +necessary incision, when the woman gave me a violent blow, and, pushing +me aside, exclaimed, “I’ll tear the eyes out of your head, +if you offer to touch him. Do you want to complete your work, +and murder him outright, now he’s asleep? you have had enough +of his blood already.” “You are mad,” said I; +“I only seek to do him service. Well, if you won’t +let him be blooded, fetch some water and fling it into his face; you +know where the pit is.”</p> +<p>“A pretty manœuvre,” said the woman: “leave +my mard <a name="citation90a"></a><a href="#footnote90a">{90a}</a> in +the hands of you and that limmer, <a name="citation90b"></a><a href="#footnote90b">{90b}</a> +who has never been true to us: I should find him strangled or his throat +cut when I came back.” “Do you go,” said I to +the tall girl, “take the can and fetch some water from the pit.” +“You had better go yourself,” said the girl, wiping a tear +as she looked on the yet senseless <!-- page 91--><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>form +of the tinker; “you had better go yourself, if you think water +will do him good.” I had by this time somewhat recovered +my exhausted powers, and, taking the can, I bent my steps as fast as +I could to the pit; arriving there, I lay down on the brink, took a +long draught, and then plunged my head into the water; after which I +filled the can, and bent my way back to the dingle. Before I could +reach the path which led down into its depths, I had to pass some way +along its side; I had arrived at a part immediately over the scene of +the last encounter, where the bank, overgrown with trees, sloped precipitously +down. Here I heard a loud sound of voices in the dingle; I stopped, +and laying hold of a tree, leaned over the bank and listened. +The two women appeared to be in hot dispute in the dingle. “It +was all owing to you, you limmer,” said the vulgar woman to the +other; “had you not interfered, the old man would soon have settled +the boy.”</p> +<p>“I’m for fair play and Long Melford,” said the +other. “If yow old man, as you call him, could have settled +the boy fairly, he might, for all I should have cared, but no foul work +for me; and as for sticking the boy with our gulleys <a name="citation91"></a><a href="#footnote91">{91}</a> +when he comes back, as you proposed, I am not so fond of your old man +or you that I should oblige you in it, to my soul’s destruction.” +“Hold your tongue, or I’ll . . .”; I listened no farther, +but hastened as fast as I could to the dingle. My adversary had +just begun to show signs of animation; <!-- page 92--><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>the +vulgar woman was still supporting him, and occasionally cast glances +of anger at the tall girl, who was walking slowly up and down. +I lost no time in dashing the greater part of the water into the Tinman’s +face, whereupon he sneezed, moved his hands, and presently looked round +him. At first his looks were dull and heavy, and without any intelligence +at all; he soon, however, began to recollect himself, and to be conscious +of his situation; he cast a scowling glance at me, then one of the deepest +malignity at the tall girl, who was still walking about without taking +much notice of what was going forward. At last he looked at his +right hand, which had evidently suffered from the blow against the tree, +and a half-stifled curse escaped his lips. The vulgar woman now +said something to him in a low tone, whereupon he looked at her for +a moment, and then got upon his legs. Again the vulgar woman said +something to him; her looks were furious, and she appeared to be urging +him on to attempt something. I observed that she had a clasped +knife in her hand. The fellow remained standing for some time, +as if hesitating what to do; at last he looked at his hand, and, shaking +his head, said something to the woman which I did not understand. +The tall girl, however, appeared to overhear him, and, probably repeating +his words, said, “No, it won’t do: you are right there; +and now hear what I have to say,—let bygones be bygones, and let +us all shake hands, and camp here, as the young man was saying just +now.” The man looked at her, and then, without any reply, +went to his <!-- page 93--><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>horse, +which was lying down among the trees, and kicking it up, led it to the +cart, to which he forthwith began to harness it. The other cart +and horse had remained standing motionless during the whole affair which +I have been recounting, at the bottom of the pass. The woman now +took the horse by the head, and leading it with the cart into the open +part of the dingle, turned both round, and then led them back, till +the horse and cart had mounted a little way up the ascent; she then +stood still and appeared to be expecting the man. During this +proceeding Belle had stood looking on without saying anything; at last, +perceiving that the man had harnessed his horse to the other cart, and +that both he and the woman were about to take their departure, she said, +“You are not going, are you?” Receiving no answer, +she continued: “I tell you what, both of you, Black John, and +you Moll, his mort, this is not treating me over civilly,—however, +I am ready to put up with it, and to go with you if you like, for I +bear no malice. I’m sorry for what has happened, but you +have only yourselves to thank for it. Now, shall I go with you? +only tell me.” The man made no manner of reply, but flogged +his horse. The woman, however, whose passions were probably under +less control, replied, with a screeching tone, “Stay where you +are, you jade, and may the curse of Judas cling to you,—stay with +the bit of a mullo <a name="citation93a"></a><a href="#footnote93a">{93a}</a> +whom you helped, and my only hope is that he may gulley <a name="citation93b"></a><a href="#footnote93b">{93b}</a> +you before he comes to be—Have you with us, indeed! after what’s +<!-- page 94--><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>past, +no, nor nothing belonging to you. Fetch down your mailla <a name="citation94a"></a><a href="#footnote94a">{94a}</a> +go-cart and live here with your chabo.” <a name="citation94b"></a><a href="#footnote94b">{94b}</a> +She then whipped on the horse, and ascended the pass, followed by the +man. The carts were light, and they were not long in ascending +the winding path. I followed, to see that they took their departure. +Arriving at the top, I found near the entrance a small donkey-cart, +which I concluded belonged to the girl. The tinker and his mort +were already at some distance; I stood looking after them for a little +time, then taking the donkey by the reins I led it with the cart to +the bottom of the dingle. Arrived there, I found Belle seated +on the stone by the fireplace. Her hair was all dishevelled, and +she was in tears.</p> +<p>“They were bad people,” said she, “and I did not +like them, but they were my only acquaintance in the wide world.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER V.—ISOPEL BERNERS: A TALL GIRL OF EIGHTEEN, AND +HER STORY.</h2> +<p>In the evening of that same day the tall girl and I sat at tea by +the fire, at the bottom of the dingle; the girl on a small stool, and +myself, as usual, upon my stone.</p> +<p>The water which served for the tea had been taken from a spring of +pellucid water in the neighbourhood, which I had not had the good fortune +to discover, though it was well known to my companion, and to the wandering +people who frequented the dingle.</p> +<p><!-- page 95--><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>“This +tea is very good,” said I, “but I cannot enjoy it as much +as if I were well: I feel very sadly.”</p> +<p>“How else should you feel,” said the girl, “after +fighting with the Flaming Tinman? All I wonder is that you can +feel at all! As for the tea, it ought to be good, seeing that +it cost me ten shillings a pound.”</p> +<p>“That’s a great deal for a person in your station to +pay.”</p> +<p>“In my station! I’d have you to know, young man—however, +I haven’t the heart to quarrel with you, you look so ill; and +after all, it is a good sum to pay for one who travels the roads; but +if I must have tea, I like to have the best; and tea I must have, for +I am used to it, though I can’t help thinking that it sometimes +fills my head with strange fancies—what some folks call vapours, +making me weep and cry!”</p> +<p>“Dear me,” said I, “I should never have thought +that one of your size and fierceness would weep and cry!”</p> +<p>“My size and fierceness! I tell you what, young man, +you are not over civil, this evening; but you are ill, as I said before, +and I shan’t take much notice of your language, at least for the +present; as for my size, I am not so much bigger than yourself; and +as for being fierce, you should be the last one to fling that at me. +It is well for you that I can be fierce sometimes. If I hadn’t +taken your part against Blazing Bosville, you wouldn’t be now +taking tea with me.”</p> +<p>“It is true that you struck me in the face first; but we’ll +let that pass. So that man’s name is Bosville; what’s +your own?”</p> +<p><!-- page 96--><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>“Isopel +Berners.”</p> +<p>“How did you get that name?”</p> +<p>“I say, young man, you seem fond of asking questions! will +you have another cup of tea?”</p> +<p>“I was just going to ask for another.”</p> +<p>“Well, then, here it is, and much good may it do you; as for +my name, I got it from my mother.”</p> +<p>“Your mother’s name, then, was Isopel?”</p> +<p>“Isopel Berners.”</p> +<p>“But had you never a father?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I had a father,” said the girl, sighing, “but +I don’t bear his name.”</p> +<p>“It is the fashion, then, in your country for children to bear +their mother’s name?”</p> +<p>“If you ask such questions, young man, I shall be angry with +you. I have told you my name, and whether my father’s or +mother’s, I am not ashamed of it.”</p> +<p>“It is a noble name.”</p> +<p>“There you are right, young man. The chaplain in the +great house, where I was born, told me it was a noble name; it was odd +enough, he said, that the only three noble names in the country were +to be found in the great house; mine was one; the other two were Devereux +and Bohun.”</p> +<p>“What do you mean by the great house?”</p> +<p>“The workhouse.”</p> +<p>“Is it possible that you were born there?”</p> +<p>“Yes, young man; and as you now speak softly and kindly, I +will tell you my whole tale. My father <!-- page 97--><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>was +an officer of the sea, and was killed at sea as he was coming home to +marry my mother, Isopel Berners. He had been acquainted with her, +and had left her; but after a few months he wrote her a letter, to say +that he had no rest, and that he repented, and that as soon as his ship +came to port he would do her all the reparation in his power. +Well, young man, the very day before they reached port they met the +enemy, and there was a fight, and my father was killed, after he had +struck down six of the enemy’s crew on their own deck; for my +father was a big man, as I have heard, and knew tolerably well how to +use his hands. And when my mother heard the news, she became half +distracted, and ran away into the fields and forests, totally neglecting +her business, for she was a small milliner; and so she ran demented +about the meads and forests for a long time, now sitting under a tree, +and now by the side of a river—at last she flung herself into +some water, and would have been drowned, had not some one been at hand +and rescued her, whereupon she was conveyed to the great house, lest +she should attempt to do herself further mischief, for she had neither +friends nor parents—and there she died three months after, having +first brought me into the world. She was a sweet, pretty creature, +I’m told, but hardly fit for this world, being neither large, +nor fierce, nor able to take her own part. So I was born and bred +in the great house, where I learnt to read and sew, to fear God, and +to take my own part. When I was fourteen I was put out to service +to a small farmer and his wife, with whom, <!-- page 98--><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>however, +I did not stay long, for I was half starved, and otherwise ill-treated, +especially by my mistress, who one day attempted to knock me down with +a besom, I knocked her down with my fist, and went back to the great +house.”</p> +<p>“And how did they receive you in the great house?”</p> +<p>“Not very kindly, young man—on the contrary, I was put +into a dark room, where I was kept a fortnight on bread and water; I +did not much care, however, being glad to have got back to the great +house at any rate, the place where I was born, and where my poor mother +died; and in the great house I continued two years longer, reading and +sewing, fearing God, and taking my own part when necessary. At +the end of the two years I was again put out to service, but this time +to a rich farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not live long,—less +time, I believe, than with the poor ones, being obliged to leave for—”</p> +<p>“Knocking your mistress down?”</p> +<p>“No, young man, knocking my master down, who conducted himself +improperly towards me. This time I did not go back to the great +house, having a misgiving that they would not receive me; so I turned +my back to the great house where I was born, and where my poor mother +died, and wandered for several days, I know not whither, supporting +myself on a few halfpence, which I chanced to have in my pocket. +It happened one day, as I sat under a hedge crying, having spent my +last farthing, that a comfortable-looking elderly woman came up in a +cart, and seeing the state in which <!-- page 99--><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>I +was, she stopped and asked what was the matter with me. I told +her some part of my story, whereupon she said, ‘Cheer up, my dear: +if you like, you shall go with me, and wait upon me.’ Of +course I wanted little persuasion, so I got into the cart and went with +her. She took me to London and various other places, and I soon +found that she was a travelling woman, who went about the country with +silks and linen. I was of great use to her, more especially in +those places where we met evil company. Once, as we were coming +from Dover, we were met by two sailors, who stopped our cart, and would +have robbed and stripped us. ‘Let me get down,’ said +I; so I got down, and fought with them both, till they turned round +and ran away. Two years I lived with the old gentlewoman, who +was very kind to me, almost as kind as a mother; at last she fell sick +at a place in Lincolnshire, and after a few days died, leaving me her +cart and stock in trade, praying me only to see her decently buried, +which I did, giving her a funeral fit for a gentlewoman. After +which I travelled the country melancholy enough for want of company, +but so far fortunate, that I could take my own part when anybody was +uncivil to me. At last, passing through the valley of Todmorden, +I formed the acquaintance of Blazing Bosville and his wife, with whom +I occasionally took journeys for company’s sake, for it is melancholy +to travel about alone, even when one can take one’s own part. +I soon found they were evil people; but, upon the whole, they treated +me civilly, and I sometimes lent them a little money, so <!-- page 100--><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>that +we got on tolerably well together. He and I, it is true, had once +a dispute, and nearly came to blows; for once, when we were alone, he +wanted me to marry him, promising, if I would, to turn off Grey Moll, +or if I liked it better, to make her wait upon me as a maid-servant. +I never liked him much, but from that hour less than ever. Of +the two, I believe Grey Moll to be the best, for she is at any rate +true and faithful to him, and I like truth and constancy, don’t +you, young man?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said I, “they are very nice things. +I feel very strangely.”</p> +<p>“How do you feel, young man?”</p> +<p>“Very much afraid.”</p> +<p>“Afraid, at what? At the Flaming Tinman? Don’t +be afraid of him. He won’t come back, and if he did, he +shouldn’t touch you in this state: I’d fight him for you. +But he won’t come back, so you needn’t be afraid of him.”</p> +<p>“I’m not afraid of the Flaming Tinman.”</p> +<p>“What, then, are you afraid of?”</p> +<p>“The evil one?”</p> +<p>“The evil one?” said the girl: “where is he?”</p> +<p>“Coming upon me.”</p> +<p>“Never heed,” said the girl: “I’ll stand +by you.”</p> +<h2><!-- page 101--><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>CHAPTER +VI.—A FOAMING DRAUGHT—THE MAGIC OF ALE.</h2> +<p>The kitchen of the public-house was a large one, and many people +were drinking in it; there was a confused hubbub of voices.</p> +<p>I sat down on a bench behind a deal table, of which there were three +or four in the kitchen; presently a bulky man, in a green coat, of the +Newmarket cut, and without a hat, entered, and observing me, came up, +and in rather a gruff tone cried, “Want anything, young fellow?”</p> +<p>“Bring me a jug of ale,” said I; “if you are the +master, as I suppose you are, by that same coat of yours, and your having +no hat on your head.”</p> +<p>“Don’t be saucy, young fellow,” said the landlord, +for such he was, “don’t be saucy, or—” +Whatever he intended to say, he left unsaid, for fixing his eyes upon +one of my hands, which I had placed by chance upon the table, he became +suddenly still.</p> +<p>This was my left hand, which was raw and swollen, from the blows +dealt on a certain hard skull in a recent combat. “What +do you mean by staring at my hand so?” said I, withdrawing it +from the table.</p> +<p>“No offence, young man, no offence,” said the landlord +in a quite altered tone; “but the sight of your hand—.” +Then observing that our conversation began to attract the notice of +the guests in the kitchen, he interrupted himself saying in an undertone, +“But <!-- page 102--><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>mum’s +the word for the present; I will go and fetch the ale.”</p> +<p>In about a minute he returned, with a jug of ale foaming high. +“Here’s your health,” said he, blowing off the foam +and drinking; but perceiving that I looked rather dissatisfied, he murmured, +“All’s right—I glory in you; but mum’s the word.” +Then placing the jug on the table, he gave me a confidential nod, and +swaggered out of the room.</p> +<p>What can the silly impertinent fellow mean? thought I; but the ale +was now before me, and I hastened to drink, for my weakness was great, +and my mind was full of dark thoughts, the remains of the indescribable +horror of the preceding night. It may kill me, thought I, as I +drank deep; but who cares? anything is better than what I have suffered. +I drank deep, and then leaned back against the wall; it appeared as +if a vapour was stealing up into my brain, gentle and benign, soothing +and stilling the horror and the fear; higher and higher it mounted, +and I felt nearly overcome; but the sensation was delicious, compared +with that I had lately experienced, and now I felt myself nodding; and, +bending down, I laid my head on the table on my folded hands.</p> +<p>And in that attitude I remained some time, perfectly unconscious. +At length, by degrees, perception returned, and I lifted up my head. +I felt somewhat dizzy and bewildered, but the dark shadow had withdrawn +itself from me. And now, once more, I drank of the jug; this second +draught did not produce an overpowering <!-- page 103--><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>effect +upon me—it revived and strengthened me—I felt a new man.</p> +<p>I looked around me: the kitchen had been deserted by the greater +part of the guests; besides myself, only four remained; these were seated +at the farther end. One was haranguing fiercely and eagerly; he +was abusing England, and praising America. At last he exclaimed, +“So when I gets to New York, I will toss up my hat, and damn the +King.”</p> +<p>That man must be a radical, thought I.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII.—A DISCIPLE OF WILLIAM COBBETT—THE SCHOLAR +ENCOUNTERS THE PRIEST.</h2> +<p>The individual whom I supposed to be a radical, after a short pause, +again uplifted his voice; he was rather a strong-built fellow of about +thirty, with an ill-favoured countenance, a white hat on his head, a +snuff-coloured coat on his back, and, when he was not speaking, a pipe +in his mouth. “Who would live in such a country as England?” +he shouted.</p> +<p>“There is no country like America,” said his nearest +neighbour, a man also in a white hat, and of a very ill-favoured countenance,—“there +is no country like America,” said he, withdrawing a pipe from +his mouth. “I think I shall”—and here he took +a draught from a jug, the contents of which he appeared to have in common +with the other—“go to America one of these days myself.”</p> +<p><!-- page 104--><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>“Poor +old England is not such a bad country, after all,” said a third, +a simple-looking man in a labouring dress, who sat smoking a pipe without +anything before him. “If there was but a little more work +to be got I should have nothing to say against her. I hope, however—”</p> +<p>“You hope? who cares what you hope?” interrupted the +first, in a savage tone; “you are one of those sneaking hounds +who are satisfied with dog’s wages, a bit of bread and a kick. +Work, indeed! who, with the spirit of a man, would work for a country +where there is neither liberty of speech nor of action, a land full +of beggarly aristocracy, hungry borough-mongers, insolent parsons, and +‘their --- wives and daughters,’ as William Cobbett says, +in his ‘Register’?”</p> +<p>“Ah, the Church of England has been a source of incalculable +mischief to these realms,” said another.</p> +<p>The person who uttered these words sat rather aloof from the rest; +he was dressed in a long black surtout. I could not see much of +his face, partly owing to his keeping it very much directed to the ground, +and partly owing to a large slouched hat which he wore; I observed, +however, that his hair was of a reddish tinge. On the table near +him was a glass and spoon.</p> +<p>“You are quite right,” said the first, alluding to what +this last had said: “the Church of England has done incalculable +mischief here. I value no religion three halfpence, for I believe +in none; but the one that I hate most is the Church of England; so when +I get to New York, after I have shown the fine fellows <!-- page 105--><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>on +the quay a spice of me, by --- the King, I’ll toss up my hat again, +and --- the Church of England too.”</p> +<p>“And suppose the people of New York should clap you in the +stocks?” said I.</p> +<p>These words drew upon me the attention of the whole four. The +radical and his companion stared at me ferociously; the man in black +gave me a peculiar glance from under his slouched hat; the simple-looking +man in the labouring dress laughed.</p> +<p>“What are you laughing at, you fool?” said the radical, +turning and looking at the other, who appeared to be afraid of him, +“hold your noise; and a pretty fellow, you,” said he, looking +at me, “to come here, and speak against the great American nation.”</p> +<p>“I speak against the great American nation?” said I: +“I rather paid them a compliment.”</p> +<p>“By supposing they would put me in the stocks? Well, +I call it abusing them, to suppose they would do any such thing. +Stocks, indeed!—there are no stocks in all the land. Put +me in the stocks? why, the President will come down to the quay, and +ask me to dinner, as soon as he hears what I have said about the King +and the Church.”</p> +<p>“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if you go +to America, you will say of the President and country what now you say +of the King and Church, and cry out for somebody to sent you back to +England.”</p> +<p>The radical dashed his pipe to pieces against the table. “I +tell you what, young fellow, you are a spy of the aristocracy, sent +here to kick up a disturbance.”</p> +<p><!-- page 106--><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>“Kicking +up a disturbance,” said I, “is rather inconsistent with +the office of spy. If I were a spy, I should hold my head down, +and say nothing.”</p> +<p>The man in black <a name="citation106"></a><a href="#footnote106">{106}</a> +partially raised his head, and gave me another peculiar glance.</p> +<p>“Well, if you ar’n’t sent to spy, you are sent +to bully, to prevent people speaking, and to run down the great American +nation; but you sha’n’t bully me. I say, down with +the aristocracy, the beggarly aristocracy! Come, what have you +to say to that?”</p> +<p>“Nothing,” said I.</p> +<p>“Nothing!” repeated the radical.</p> +<p>“No,” said I: “down with them as soon as you can.”</p> +<p>“As soon as I can! I wish I could. But I can down +with a bully of theirs. Come, will you fight for them?”</p> +<p>“No,” said I.</p> +<p>“You won’t?”</p> +<p><!-- page 107--><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>“No,” +said I; “though from what I have seen of them I should say they +are tolerably able to fight for themselves.”</p> +<p>“You won’t fight for them,” said the radical, triumphantly; +“I thought so; all bullies, especially those of the aristocracy, +are cowards. Here, landlord,” said he, raising his voice, +and striking against the table with the jug, “some more ale—he +won’t fight for his friends.”</p> +<p>“A white feather,” said his companion.</p> +<p>“He! he!” tittered the man in black.</p> +<p>“Landlord, landlord,” shouted the radical, striking the +table with the jug louder than before.</p> +<p>“Who called?” said the landlord, coming in at last.</p> +<p>“Fill this jug again,” said the other, “and be +quick about it.”</p> +<p>“Does any one else want anything?” said the landlord.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said the man in black; “you may bring me +another glass of gin and water.”</p> +<p>“Cold?” said the landlord.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said the man in black, “with a lump of sugar +in it.”</p> +<p>“Gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it,” <a name="citation107"></a><a href="#footnote107">{107}</a> +said I, and struck the table with my fist.</p> +<p><!-- page 108--><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>“Take +some?” said the landlord inquiringly.</p> +<p>“No,” said I, “only something came into my head.”</p> +<p>“He’s mad,” said the man in black.</p> +<p>“Not he,” said the radical. “He’s only +shamming; he knows his master is here, and therefore has recourse to +these manœuvres, but it won’t do. Come, landlord, +what are you staring at? Why don’t you obey your orders? +Keeping your customers waiting in this manner is not the way to increase +your business.”</p> +<p>The landlord looked at the radical, and then at me. At last +taking the jug and glass, he left the apartment, and presently returned +with each filled with its respective liquor. He placed the jug +with the beer before the radical, and the glass with the gin and water +before the man in black, and then, with a wink to me, he sauntered out.</p> +<p>“Here is your health, sir,” said the man of the snuff-coloured +coat, addressing himself to the man in black. “I honour +you for what you said about the Church of England. Every one who +speaks against the Church of England has my warm heart. Down with +it, I say, and may the stones of it be used for mending the roads, as +my friend William says in his Register.”</p> +<p>The man in black, with a courteous nod of his head, drank to the +man in the snuff-coloured coat. “With respect to the steeples,” +said he, “I am not altogether of your opinion: they might be turned +to better account than to serve to mend the roads; they might still +be used as places of worship, but not for the worship of the Church +of England. I have no fault to find with <!-- page 109--><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>the +steeples, it is the Church itself which I am compelled to arraign; but +it will not stand long, the respectable part of its ministers are already +leaving it. It is a bad Church, a persecuting Church.”</p> +<p>“Whom does it persecute?” said I. The man in black +glanced at me slightly, and then replied slowly, “The Catholics.”</p> +<p>“And do those whom you call Catholics never persecute?” +said I.</p> +<p>“Never,” said the man in black.</p> +<p>“Did you ever read ‘Fox’s Book of Martyrs?’” +said I.</p> +<p>“He! he!” tittered the man in black, “there is +not a word of truth in ‘Fox’s Book of Martyrs.’”</p> +<p>“Ten times more than in the ‘Flos Sanctorum,’” +said I.</p> +<p>The man in black looked at me, but made no answer.</p> +<p>“And what say you to the Massacre of the Albigenses and the +Vaudois, ‘whose bones lie scattered on the cold Alp,’ or +the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes?”</p> +<p>The man in black made no answer.</p> +<p>“Go to,” said I, “it is because the Church of England +is not a persecuting Church, that those whom you call the respectable +part are leaving her; it is because they can’t do with the poor +Dissenters what Simon de Montfort did with the Albigenses, and the cruel +Piedmontese with the Vaudois, that they turn to bloody Rome; the Pope +will no doubt welcome them, for the Pope, do you see, being very much +in want, will welcome—”</p> +<p>“Hollo!” said the radical, interfering, “what are +<!-- page 110--><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>you +saying about the Pope? I say hurrah for the Pope: I value no religion +three halfpence, as I said before, but if I were to adopt any, it should +be the Popish, as it’s called, because I conceive the Popish to +be the grand enemy of the Church of England, of the beggarly aristocracy, +and the borough-monger system, so I won’t hear the Pope abused +while I am by. Come, don’t look fierce. You won’t +fight, you know, I have proved it; but I will give you another chance: +I will fight for the Pope—will you fight against him?”</p> +<p>“O dear me, yes,” said I, getting up and stepping forward. +“I am a quiet, peaceable young man, and, being so, am always ready +to fight against the Pope—the enemy of all peace and quiet—to +refuse fighting for the aristocracy is a widely different thing from +refusing to fight against the Pope—so come on, if you are disposed +to fight for him. To the Pope broken bells, to Saint James broken +shells. No Popish vile oppression, but the Protestant succession. +Confusion to the Groyne, hurrah for the Boyne, for the army at Clonmel, +and the Protestant young gentlemen who live there as well.”</p> +<p>“An Orangeman,” said the man in black.</p> +<p>“Not a Platitude,” said I.</p> +<p>The man in black gave a slight start. <a name="citation110"></a><a href="#footnote110">{110}</a></p> +<p><!-- page 111--><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>“Amongst +that family,” said I, “no doubt something may be done, but +amongst the Methodist preachers I should conceive that the success would +not be great.”</p> +<p>The man in black sat quite still.</p> +<p>“Especially amongst those who have wives,” I added.</p> +<p>The man in black stretched his hand towards his gin and water.</p> +<p>“However,” said I, “we shall see what the grand +movement will bring about, and the results of the lessons in elocution.”</p> +<p>The man in black lifted the glass up to his mouth, and in doing so, +let the spoon fall.</p> +<p>“But what has this to do with the main question?” said +I: “I am waiting here to fight against the Pope.”</p> +<p>“Come, Hunter,” said the companion of the man in the +snuff-coloured coat, “get up, and fight for the Pope.”</p> +<p>“I don’t care for the young fellow,” said the man +in the snuff-coloured coat.</p> +<p>“I know you don’t,” said the other; “so get +up, and serve him out.”</p> +<p><!-- page 112--><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>“I +could serve out three like him,” said the man in the snuff-coloured +coat.</p> +<p>“So much the better for you,” said the other—“the +present work will be all the easier for you; get up, and serve him out +at once.”</p> +<p>The man in the snuff-coloured coat did not stir.</p> +<p>“Who shows the white feather now?” said the simple-looking +man.</p> +<p>“He! he! he!” tittered the man in black.</p> +<p>“Who told you to interfere?” said the radical, turning +ferociously towards the simple-looking man; “say another word, +and I’ll—And you!” said he, addressing himself to +the man in black, “a pretty fellow you to turn against me, after +I had taken your part. I tell you what, you may fight for yourself. +I’ll see you and your Pope in the pit of Eldon before I fight +for either of you, so make the most of it.”</p> +<p>“Then you won’t fight?” said I.</p> +<p>“Not for the Pope,” said the radical; “I’ll +see the Pope—”</p> +<p>“Dear me!” said I, “not fight for the Pope, whose +religion you would turn to, if you were inclined for any? I see +how it is; you are not fond of fighting. But I’ll give you +another chance. You were abusing the Church of England just now. +I’ll fight for it—will you fight against it?”</p> +<p>“Come, Hunter,” said the other, “get up, and fight +against the Church of England.”</p> +<p>“I have no particular quarrel against the Church of England,” +said the man in the snuff-coloured coat; “my <!-- page 113--><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>quarrel +is with the aristocracy. If I said anything against the Church, +it is merely for a bit of corollary, as Master William Cobbett would +say; the quarrel with the Church belongs to this fellow in black, so +let him carry it on. However,” he continued suddenly, “I +won’t slink from the matter either; it shall never be said by +the fine fellows on the quay of New York, that I wouldn’t fight +against the Church of England. So down with the beggarly aristocracy, +the Church, and the Pope, to the bottom of the pit of Eldon, and may +the Pope fall first, and the others upon him.”</p> +<p>Thereupon, dashing his hat on the table, he placed himself in an +attitude of offence, and rushed forward. He was, as I have said +before, a powerful fellow, and might have proved a dangerous antagonist, +more especially to myself, who, after my recent encounter with the Flaming +Tinman, and my wrestlings with the evil one, was in anything but fighting +order. Any collision, however, was prevented by the landlord, +who, suddenly appearing, thrust himself between us. “There +shall be no fighting here,” said he: “no one shall fight +in this house, except it be with myself; so if you two have anything +to say to each other, you had better go into the field behind the house. +But you fool,” said he, pushing Hunter violently on the breast, +“do you know whom you are going to tackle with?—this is +the young chap that beat Blazing Bosville, only as late as yesterday, +in Mumpers Dingle. Grey Moll told me all about it last night, +when she came for some brandy for her husband, who, she said, had been +half killed; and she <!-- page 114--><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>described +the young man to me so closely, that I knew him at once, that is, as +soon as I saw how his left hand was bruised, for she told me he was +a left-hand hitter. Ar’n’t it all true, young man? +Ar’n’t you he that beat Flaming Bosville in Mumpers Dingle?” +“I never beat Flaming Bosville,” said I: “he beat +himself. Had he not struck his hand against a tree, I shouldn’t +be here at the present moment.” “Hear! hear!” +said the landlord, “now that’s just as it should be; I like +a modest man, for, as the parson says, nothing sits better upon the +young man than modesty. I remember, when I was young, fighting +with Tom of Hopton, the best man that ever pulled off coat in England. +I remember, too, that I won the battle; for I happened to hit Tom of +Hopton in the mark, as he was coming in, so that he lost his wind, and +falling squelch on the ground, do ye see, he lost the battle; though +I am free to confess that he was a better man than myself—indeed, +the best man that ever fought in England. Yet still I won the +battle, as every customer of mine, and everybody within twelve miles +round, has heard over and over again. Now, Mr. Hunter, I have +one thing to say; if you choose to go into the field behind the house, +and fight the young man, you can. I’ll back him for ten +pounds; but no fighting in my kitchen—because why? I keeps +a decent kind of an establishment.”</p> +<p>“I have no wish to fight the young man,” said Hunter; +“more especially as he has nothing to say for the aristocracy. +If he chose to fight for them, indeed—but he won’t, I know; +for I see he’s a decent, <!-- page 115--><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>respectable +young man; and, after all, fighting is a blackguard way of settling +a dispute, so I have no wish to fight. However, there is one thing +I’ll do,” said he, uplifting his fist; “I’ll +fight this fellow in black here for half a crown, or for nothing, if +he pleases; it was he that got up the last dispute between me and the +young man, with his Pope and his nonsense; so I will fight him for anything +he pleases, and perhaps the young man will be my second; whilst you—”</p> +<p>“Come, Doctor,” said the landlord, “or whatsoever +you be, will you go into the field with Hunter? I’ll second +you, only you must back yourself. I’ll lay five pounds on +Hunter, if you are inclined to back yourself; and will help you to win +it as far, do you see, as a second can; because why? I always +likes to do the fair thing.”</p> +<p>“Oh! I have no wish to fight,” said the man in +black, hastily; “fighting is not my trade. If I have given +any offence, I beg anybody’s pardon.”</p> +<p>“Landlord,” said I, “what have I to pay?”</p> +<p>“Nothing at all,” said the landlord; “glad to see +you. This is the first time that you have been at my house, and +I never charge new customers, at least customers such as you, anything +for the first draught. You’ll come again, I daresay; shall +always be glad to see you. I won’t take it,” said +he, as I put sixpence on the table; “I won’t take it.”</p> +<p>“Yes, you shall,” said I; “but not in payment for +anything I have had myself: it shall serve to pay for a jug of ale for +that gentleman,” said I, pointing to the <!-- page 116--><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>simple-looking +individual; “he is smoking a poor pipe, I do not mean to say that +a pipe is a bad thing; but a pipe without ale, do you see—”</p> +<p>“Bravo!” said the landlord, “that’s just +the conduct I like.”</p> +<p>“Bravo!” said Hunter. “I shall be happy to +drink with the young man whenever I meet him at New York, where, do +you see, things are better managed than here.”</p> +<p>“If I have given offence to anybody,” said the man in +black, “I repeat that I ask pardon,—more especially to the +young gentleman, who was perfectly right to stand up for his religion, +just as I—not that I am of any particular religion, no more than +this honest gentleman here,” bowing to Hunter; “but I happen +to know something of the Catholics—several excellent friends of +mine are Catholics—and of a surety the Catholic religion is an +ancient religion, and a widely-extended religion, though it certainly +is not a universal religion, but it has of late made considerable progress, +even amongst those nations who have been particularly opposed to it—amongst +the Prussians and the Dutch, for example, to say nothing of the English; +and then, in the East, amongst the Persians, amongst the Armenians.”</p> +<p>“The Armenians,” said I; “O dear me, the Armenians—”</p> +<p>“Have you anything to say about those people, sir?” said +the man in black, lifting up his glass to his mouth.</p> +<p>“I have nothing further to say,” said I, “than +that <!-- page 117--><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>the +roots of Ararat are occasionally found to be deeper than those of Rome.” +<a name="citation117"></a><a href="#footnote117">{117}</a></p> +<p>“There’s half a crown broke,” said the landlord, +as the man in black let fall the glass, which was broken to pieces on +the floor. “You will pay me the damage, friend, before you +leave this kitchen. I like to see people drink freely in my kitchen, +but not too freely, and I hate breakages: because why? I keeps +a decent kind of an establishment.”</p> +<h2><!-- page 118--><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>CHAPTER +VIII.—FIRST LESSONS IN ARMENIAN.</h2> +<p>The public-house where the scenes which I have attempted to describe +in the preceding chapters took place, was at the distance of about two +miles from the dingle. The sun was sinking in the west by the +time I returned to the latter spot. I found Belle seated by a +fire, over which her kettle was suspended. During my absence she +had prepared herself a kind of tent, consisting of large hoops covered +over with tarpaulin, quite impenetrable to rain, however violent. +“I am glad you are returned,” said she, as soon as she perceived +me; “I began to be anxious about you. Did you take my advice?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said I; “I went to the public-house and +drank ale as you advised me; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away +the horror from my mind—I am much beholden to you.”</p> +<p>“I knew it would do you good,” said Belle; “I remembered +that when the poor women in the great house were afflicted with hysterics +and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good, kind man, used +to say, ‘Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong.’”</p> +<p>“He was no advocate for tea, then?” <a name="citation118"></a><a href="#footnote118">{118}</a> +said I.</p> +<p>“He had no objection to tea; but he used to say, ‘Everything +in its season.’ Shall we take ours now?—I have waited +for you.”</p> +<p><!-- page 119--><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>“I +have no objection,” said I; “I feel rather heated, and at +present should prefer tea to ale—‘Everything in its season,’ +as the surgeon said.”</p> +<p>Thereupon Belle prepared tea, and, as we were taking it, she said, +“What did you see and hear at the public-house?”</p> +<p>“Really,” said I, “you appear to have your full +portion of curiosity: what matters it to you what I saw and heard at +the public-house?”</p> +<p>“It matters very little to me,” said Belle; “I +merely inquired of you, for the sake of a little conversation. +You were silent, and it is uncomfortable for two people to sit together +without opening their lips—at least, I think so.”</p> +<p>“One only feels uncomfortable,” said I, “in being +silent, when one happens to be thinking of the individual with whom +one is in company. To tell you the truth, I was not thinking of +my companion, but of certain company with whom I had been at the public-house.”</p> +<p>“Really, young man,” said Belle, “you are not over +complimentary; but who may this wonderful company have been—some +young—?” and here Belle stopped.</p> +<p>“No,” said I, “there was no young person—if +person you were going to say. There was a big portly landlord, +whom I dare say you have seen; a noisy, savage radical, who wanted at +first to fasten upon me a quarrel about America, but who subsequently +drew in his horns; then there was a strange fellow, a prowling priest, +I <!-- page 120--><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>believe, +whom I have frequently heard of, who at first seemed disposed to side +with the radical against me, and afterwards with me against the radical. +There, you know my company, and what took place.”</p> +<p>“Was there no one else?” said Belle.</p> +<p>“You are mighty curious,” said I. “No, none +else, except a poor simple mechanic, and some common company, who soon +went away.”</p> +<p>Belle looked at me for a moment, and then appeared to be lost in +thought. “America,” said she musingly—“America!”</p> +<p>“What of America?” said I.</p> +<p>“I have heard that it is a mighty country.”</p> +<p>“I dare say it is,” said I; “I have heard my father +say that the Americans are first-rate marksmen.”</p> +<p>“I heard nothing about that,” said Belle; “what +I heard was, that it is a great and goodly land, where people can walk +about without jostling, and where the industrious can always find bread; +I have frequently thought of going thither.”</p> +<p>“Well,” I said, “the radical in the public-house +will perhaps be glad of your company thither; he is as great an admirer +of America as yourself, though I believe on different grounds.”</p> +<p>“I shall go by myself,” said Belle, “unless—unless +that should happen which is not likely. I am not fond of radicals +no more than I am of scoffers and mockers.”</p> +<p>“Do you mean to say that I am a scoffer and mocker?”</p> +<p>“I don’t wish to say you are,” said Belle; “but +some <!-- page 121--><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>of +your words sound strangely like scoffing and mocking. I have now +one thing to beg, which is, that if you have anything to say against +America, you would speak it out boldly.”</p> +<p>“What should I have to say against America? I never was +there.”</p> +<p>“Many people speak against America who never were there.”</p> +<p>“Many people speak in praise of America who never were there; +but with respect to myself, I have not spoken for or against America.”</p> +<p>“If you liked America you would speak in its praise.”</p> +<p>“By the same rule, if I disliked America I should speak against +it.”</p> +<p>“I can’t speak with you,” said Belle; “but +I see you dislike the country.”</p> +<p>“The country!”</p> +<p>“Well, the people—don’t you?”</p> +<p>“I do.”</p> +<p>“Why do you dislike them?”</p> +<p>“Why, I have heard my father say that the American marksmen, +led on by a chap of the name of Washington, sent the English to the +right-about in double-quick time.”</p> +<p>“And that is your reason for disliking the Americans?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said I, “that is my reason for disliking +them.”</p> +<p>“Will you take another cup of tea?” said Belle.</p> +<p>I took another cup; we were again silent. “It is rather +uncomfortable,” said I, at last, “for people to sit together +without having anything to say.”</p> +<p>“Were you thinking of your company?” said Belle.</p> +<p><!-- page 122--><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>“What +company?” said I.</p> +<p>“The present company.”</p> +<p>“The present company! Oh, ah!—I remember that I +said one only feels uncomfortable in being silent with a companion, +when one happens to be thinking of the companion. Well, I had +been thinking of you the last two or three minutes, and had just come +to the conclusion, that to prevent us both feeling occasionally uncomfortably +towards each other, having nothing to say, it would be as well to have +a standing subject, on which to employ our tongues. Belle, I have +determined to give you lessons in Armenian.”</p> +<p>“What is Armenian?”</p> +<p>“Did you ever hear of Ararat?”</p> +<p>“Yes, that was the place where the ark rested; I have heard +the chaplain in the great house talk of it; besides, I have read of +it in the Bible.”</p> +<p>“Well, Armenian is the speech of people of that place, and +I should like to teach it you.”</p> +<p>“To prevent—”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay, to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable +together. Your acquiring it besides might prove of ulterior advantage +to us both: for example, suppose you and I were in promiscuous company, +at Court, for example, and you had something to communicate to me which +you did not wish any one else to be acquainted with, how safely you +might communicate it to me in Armenian!”</p> +<p>“Would not the language of the roads do as well?” said +Belle.</p> +<p><!-- page 123--><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>“In +some places it would,” said I, “but not at Court, owing +to its resemblance to thieves’ slang. There is Hebrew, again, +which I was thinking of teaching you, till the idea of being presented +at Court made me abandon it, from the probability of our being understood, +in the event of our speaking it, by at least half a dozen people in +our vicinity. There is Latin, it is true, or Greek, which we might +speak aloud at Court with perfect confidence of safety; but upon the +whole I should prefer teaching you Armenian, not because it would be +a safer language to hold communication with at Court, but because, not +being very well grounded in it myself, I am apprehensive that its words +and forms may escape from my recollection, unless I have sometimes occasion +to call them forth.”</p> +<p>“I am afraid we shall have to part company before I have learnt +it,” said Belle; “in the mean time, if I wish to say anything +to you in private, somebody being by, shall I speak in the language +of the roads?”</p> +<p>“If no roadster is nigh, you may,” said I, “and +I will do my best to understand you. Belle, I will now give you +a lesson in Armenian.”</p> +<p>“I suppose you mean no harm,” said Belle.</p> +<p>“Not in the least; I merely propose the thing to prevent our +occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Let us begin.”</p> +<p>“Stop till I have removed the tea-things,” said Belle; +and, getting up, she removed them to her own encampment.</p> +<p>“I am ready,” said Belle, returning, and taking her <!-- page 124--><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>former +seat, “to join with you in anything which will serve to pass away +the time agreeably, provided there is no harm in it.”</p> +<p>“Belle,” said I, “I have determined to commence +the course of Armenian lessons by teaching you the numerals; but, before +I do that, it will be as well to tell you that the Armenian language +is called Haik.”</p> +<p>“I am sure that word will hang upon my memory,” said +Belle.</p> +<p>“Why hang upon it?”</p> +<p>“Because the old women in the great house used to call so the +chimney-hook, on which they hung the kettle; in like manner, on the +hake of my memory I will hang your hake.”</p> +<p>“Good!” said I, “you will make an apt scholar; +but, mind, that I did not say hake, but haik; the words are, however, +very much alike; and, as you observe, upon your hake you may hang my +haik. We will now proceed to the numerals.”</p> +<p>“What are numerals?” said Belle.</p> +<p>“Numbers. I will say the Haikan numbers up to ten. +There, have you heard them?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Well, try and repeat them.”</p> +<p>“I only remember number one,” said Belle, “and +that because it is me.”</p> +<p>“I will repeat them again,” said I, “and pay great +attention. Now, try again.”</p> +<p>“Me, jergo, earache.”</p> +<p>“I neither said jergo, nor earache. I said yergou and +<!-- page 125--><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>yerek. +Belle, I am afraid I shall have some difficulty with you as a scholar.”</p> +<p>Belle made no answer. Her eyes were turned in the direction +of the winding path, which led from the bottom of the hollow where we +were seated, to the plain above “Gorgio shunella,” <a name="citation125a"></a><a href="#footnote125a">{125a}</a> +she said, at length, in a low voice.</p> +<p>“Pure Rommany,” said I; “where?” I added, +in a whisper.</p> +<p>“Dovey odoy,” <a name="citation125b"></a><a href="#footnote125b">{125b}</a> +said Belle, nodding with her head towards the path.</p> +<p>“I will soon see who it is,” said I; and starting up, +I rushed towards the pathway, intending to lay violent hands on any +one I might find lurking in its windings. Before, however, I had +reached its commencement, a man, somewhat above the middle height, advanced +from it into the dingle, in whom I recognised the man in black, whom +I had seen in the public-house.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX.—LAVENGRO RECEIVES A VISIT OF CEREMONY FROM +THE MAN IN BLACK.</h2> +<p>The man in black and myself stood opposite to each other for a minute +or two in silence; I will not say that we confronted each other that +time, for the man in black, after a furtive glance, did not look me +in the face, but kept his eyes fixed, apparently on the leaves of a +bunch of ground nuts which were growing at my feet. <!-- page 126--><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>At +length, looking round the dingle, he exclaimed, “Buona Sera, I +hope I don’t intrude.”</p> +<p>“You have as much right here,” said I, “as I or +my companion; but you had no right to stand listening to our conversation.”</p> +<p>“I was not listening,” said the man: “I was hesitating +whether to advance or retire; and if I heard some of your conversation +the fault was not mine.”</p> +<p>“I do not see why you should have hesitated if your intentions +were good,” said I.</p> +<p>“I think the kind of place in which I found myself might excuse +some hesitation,” said the man in black, looking around; “moreover, +from what I have seen of your demeanour at the public-house, I was rather +apprehensive that the reception I might experience at your hands might +be more rough than agreeable.”</p> +<p>“And what may have been your motive for coming to this place?” +said I.</p> +<p>“Per far visita à sua signoria, ecco il motivo.”</p> +<p>“Why do you speak to me in that gibberish,” said I; “do +you think I understand it?”</p> +<p>“It is not Armenian,” said the man in black; “but +it might serve in a place like this, for the breathing of a little secret +communication, were any common roadster near at hand. It would +not do at Court, it is true, being the language of singing women, and +the like; but we are not at Court—when we are, I can perhaps summon +up a little indifferent Latin, if I have anything private to communicate +to the learned Professor.”</p> +<p>And at the conclusion of this speech the man in <!-- page 127--><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>black +lifted up his head, and, for some moments, looked me in the face. +The muscles of his own seemed to be slightly convulsed, and his mouth +opened in a singular manner.</p> +<p>“I see,” said I, “that for some time you were standing +near me and my companion, in the mean act of listening.”</p> +<p>“Not at all,” said the man in black: “I heard from +the steep bank above, that to which I have now alluded, whilst I was +puzzling myself to find the path which leads to your retreat. +I made, indeed, nearly the compass of the whole thicket before I found +it.”</p> +<p>“And how did you know that I was here?” I demanded.</p> +<p>“The landlord of the public-house, with whom I had some conversation +concerning you, informed me that he had no doubt I should find you in +this place, to which he gave me instructions not very clear. But +now I am here, I crave permission to remain a little time, in order +that I may hold some communion with you.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “since you are come, you are welcome; +please step this way.”</p> +<p>Thereupon I conducted the man in black to the fireplace, where Belle +was standing, who had risen from her stool on my springing up to go +in quest of the stranger. The man in black looked at her with +evident curiosity, then making her rather a graceful bow, “Lovely +virgin,” said he, stretching out his hand, “allow me to +salute your fingers.”</p> +<p><!-- page 128--><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>“I +am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers,” said Belle.</p> +<p>“I did not presume to request to shake hands with you,” +said the man in black; “I merely wished to be permitted to salute +with my lips the extremity of your two forefingers.”</p> +<p>“I never permit anything of the kind,” said Belle; “I +do not approve of such unmanly ways: they are only befitting those who +lurk in corners or behind trees, listening to the conversation of people +who would fain be private.”</p> +<p>“Do you take me for a listener, then?” said the man in +black.</p> +<p>“Ay, indeed I do,” said Belle; “the young man may +receive your excuses, and put confidence in them if he please, but for +my part I neither admit them, nor believe them;” and thereupon +flinging her long hair back, which was hanging over her cheeks, she +seated herself on her stool.</p> +<p>“Come, Belle,” said I, “I have bidden the gentleman +welcome; I beseech you, therefore, to make him welcome. He is +a stranger, where we are at home; therefore, even did we wish him away, +we are bound to treat him kindly.”</p> +<p>“That’s not English doctrine,” said the man in +black.</p> +<p>“I thought the English prided themselves on their hospitality,” +said I.</p> +<p>“They do so,” said the man in black; “they are +proud of showing hospitality to people above them, <!-- page 129--><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>that +is to those who do not want it, but of the hospitality which you were +now describing, and which is Arabian, they know nothing. No Englishman +will tolerate another in his house, from whom he does not expect advantage +of some kind, and to those from whom he does, he can be civil enough. +An Englishman thinks that, because he is in his own house, he has a +right to be boorish and brutal to any one who is disagreeable to him, +as all those are who are really in want of assistance. Should +a hunted fugitive rush into an Englishman’s house, beseeching +protection, and appealing to the master’s feelings of hospitality, +the Englishman would knock him down in the passage.”</p> +<p>“You are too general,” said I, “in your strictures; +Lord [Aberdeen], the unpopular Tory minister, was once chased through +the streets of London by a mob, and, being in danger of his life, took +shelter in the shop of a Whig linendraper, declaring his own unpopular +name, and appealing to the linendraper’s feelings of hospitality; +whereupon the linendraper, utterly forgetful of all party rancour, nobly +responded to the appeal, and telling his wife to conduct his lordship +upstairs, jumped over the counter, with his ell in his hand, and placing +himself with half a dozen of his assistants at the door of his boutique, +manfully confronted the mob, telling them that he would allow himself +to be torn to a thousand pieces, ere he would permit them to injure +a hair of his lordship’s head: what do you think of that!”</p> +<p>“He! he! he!” tittered the man in black.</p> +<p><!-- page 130--><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>“Well,” +said I, “I am afraid your own practice is not very different from +that which you have been just now describing: you sided with the radical +in the public-house against me, as long as you thought him the most +powerful, and then turned against him when you saw he was cowed. +What have you to say to that?”</p> +<p>“O! when one is in Rome, I mean England, one must do as they +do in England; I was merely conforming to the custom of the country, +he! he! but I beg your pardon here, as I did in the public-house I made +a mistake.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “we will drop the matter; but pray +seat yourself on that stone, and I will sit down on the grass near you.”</p> +<p>The man in black, after proffering two or three excuses for occupying +what he supposed to be my seat, sat down upon the stone, and I squatted +down gypsy fashion, just opposite to him, Belle sitting on her stool +at a slight distance on my right.</p> +<p>After a time I addressed him thus. “Am I to reckon this +a mere visit of ceremony? Should it prove so, it will be, I believe, +the first visit of the kind ever paid me.”</p> +<p>“Will you permit me to ask,” said the man in black,—“the +weather is very warm,” said he, interrupting himself, and taking +off his hat.</p> +<p>I now observed that he was partly bald, his red hair having died +away from the fore part of his crown; his forehead was high, his eyebrows +scanty, his eyes, <!-- page 131--><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>grey +and sly, with a downward tendency, his nose was slightly aquiline, his +mouth rather large—a kind of sneering smile played continually +on his lips, his complexion was somewhat rubicund.</p> +<p>“A bad countenance,” said Belle, in the language of the +roads, observing that my eyes were fixed on his face.</p> +<p>“Does not my countenance please you, fair damsel?” said +the man in black, resuming his hat and speaking in a peculiarly gentle +voice.</p> +<p>“How,” said I, “do you understand the language +of the roads?”</p> +<p>“As little as I do Armenian,” said the man in black; +“but I understand look and tone.”</p> +<p>“So do I, perhaps,” retorted Belle; “and, to tell +you the truth, I like your tone as little as your face.”</p> +<p>“For shame!” said I; “have you forgot what I was +saying just now about the duties of hospitality? You have not +yet answered my question,” said I, addressing myself to the man, +“with respect to your visit.”</p> +<p>“Will you permit me to ask who you are?”</p> +<p>“Do you see the place where I live?” said I.</p> +<p>“I do,” said the man in black, looking around.</p> +<p>“Do you know the name of this place?”</p> +<p>“I was told it was Mumpers’ or Gypsies’ Dingle,” +said the man in black.</p> +<p>“Good,” said I; “and this forge and tent, what +do they look like?”</p> +<p>“Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen +the like in Italy.”</p> +<p><!-- page 132--><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 132</span>“Good,” +said I; “they belong to me.”</p> +<p>“Are you, then, a Gypsy?” said the man in black.</p> +<p>“What else should I be?”</p> +<p>“But you seem to have been acquainted with various individuals +with whom I have likewise had acquaintance; and you have even alluded +to matters, and even words, which have passed between me and them.”</p> +<p>“Do you know how Gypsies live!” said I.</p> +<p>“By hammering old iron, I believe, and telling fortunes.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “there’s my forge, and yonder +is some iron, though not old, and by your own confession I am a soothsayer.”</p> +<p>“But how did you come by your knowledge?”</p> +<p>“Oh,” said I, “if you want me to reveal the secrets +of my trade, I have, of course, nothing further to say. Go to +the scarlet dyer, and ask him how he dyes cloth.”</p> +<p>“Why scarlet?” said the man in black. “Is +it because Gypsies blush like scarlet?”</p> +<p>“Gypsies never blush,” said I; “but Gypsies’ +cloaks are scarlet.”</p> +<p>“I should almost take you for a Gypsy,” said the man +in black, “but for—”</p> +<p>“For what?” said I.</p> +<p>“But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general knowledge +of languages; as for your manners and appearance I will say nothing,” +said the man in black, with a titter.</p> +<p>“And why should not a Gypsy possess a knowledge of languages?” +said I.</p> +<p><!-- page 133--><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>“Because +the Gypsy race is perfectly illiterate,” said the man in black; +“they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness, and are +particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers—and in +your answers, I confess, you remind me of them; but that one of the +race should acquire a learned language like the Armenian, and have a +general knowledge of literature, is a thing che io non credo afatto.”</p> +<p>“What do you take me for?” said I.</p> +<p>“Why,” said the man in black, “I should consider +you to be a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a Gypsy +life; but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far +too acute for a philologist.”</p> +<p>“And why should not a philologist be able to answer questions +acutely?” said I.</p> +<p>“Because the philological race is the most stupid under Heaven,” +said the man in black; “they are possessed, it is true, of a certain +faculty for picking up words, and a memory for retaining them; but that +any one of the sect should be able to give a rational answer, to say +nothing of an acute one, on any subject—even though the subject +were philology—is a thing of which I have no idea.”</p> +<p>“But you found me giving a lesson in Armenian to this handmaid?”</p> +<p>“I believe I did,” said the man in black.</p> +<p>“And you heard me give what you are disposed to call acute +answers to the questions you asked me?”</p> +<p>“I believe I did,” said the man in black.</p> +<p><!-- page 134--><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 134</span>“And +would any one but a philologist think of giving a lesson in Armenian +to a handmaid in a dingle?”</p> +<p>“I should think not,” said the man in black.</p> +<p>“Well, then, don’t you see that it is possible for a +philologist to give not only a rational, but an acute answer?”</p> +<p>“I really don’t know,” said the man in black.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter with you?” said I.</p> +<p>“Merely puzzled,” said the man in black.</p> +<p>“Puzzled?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Really puzzled?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Remain so.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said the man in black, rising, “puzzled +or not, I will no longer trespass upon your and this young lady’s +retirement; only allow me, before I go, to apologise for my intrusion.”</p> +<p>“No apology is necessary,” said I; “will you please +to take anything before you go? I think this young lady, at my +request, will contrive to make you a cup of tea.”</p> +<p>“Tea!” said the man in black—“he! he! +I don’t drink tea; I don’t like it,—if, indeed, you +had—” and here he stopped.</p> +<p>“There’s nothing like gin and water, is there?” +said I, “but I am sorry to say I have none.”</p> +<p>“Gin and water,” said the man in black—“how +do you know that I am fond of gin and water?”</p> +<p>“Did I not see you drinking some at the public-house?”</p> +<p><!-- page 135--><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>“You +did,” said the man in black, “and I remember, that when +I called for some, you repeated my words. Permit me to ask, Is +gin and water an unusual drink in England?”</p> +<p>“It is not usually drunk cold, and with a lump of sugar,” +said I.</p> +<p>“And did you know who I was by my calling for it so?”</p> +<p>“Gypsies have various ways of obtaining information,” +said I.</p> +<p>“With all your knowledge,” said the man in black, “you +do not appear to have known that I was coming to visit you?”</p> +<p>“Gypsies do not pretend to know anything which relates to themselves,” +said I; “but I advise you, if you ever come again, to come openly.”</p> +<p>“Have I your permission to come again?” said the man +in black.</p> +<p>“Come when you please; this dingle is as free for you as me.”</p> +<p>“I will visit you again,” said the man in black—“till +then addio.”</p> +<p>“Belle,” said I, after the man in black had departed, +“we did not treat that man very hospitably; he left us without +having eaten or drunk at our expense.”</p> +<p>“You offered him some tea,” said Belle, “which, +as it is mine, I should have grudged him, for I like him not.”</p> +<p>“Our liking or disliking him had nothing to do with the matter; +he was our visitor, and ought not to have <!-- page 136--><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 136</span>been +permitted to depart dry; living as we do in this desert, we ought always +to be prepared to administer to the wants of our visitors. Belle, +do you know where to procure any good Hollands?”</p> +<p>“I think I do,” said Belle, “but—”</p> +<p>“I will have no ‘buts.’ Belle, I expect that +with as little delay as possible you procure, at my expense, the best +Hollands you can find.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER X.—HOW ISOPEL BERNERS AND THE WORD-MASTER PASSED +THEIR TIME IN THE DINGLE.</h2> +<p>Time passed on, and Belle and I lived in the dingle; when I say lived, +the reader must not imagine that we were always there. She went +out upon her pursuits, and I went out where inclination led me; but +my excursions were very short ones, and hers occasionally occupied whole +days and nights. If I am asked how we passed the time when we +were together in the dingle, I would answer that we passed the time +very tolerably, all things considered; we conversed together, and when +tired of conversing I would sometimes give Belle a lesson in Armenian; +her progress was not particularly brilliant, but upon the whole satisfactory; +in about a fortnight she had hung up one hundred Haikan numerals upon +the hake of her memory. I found her conversation highly entertaining; +she had seen much of England and Wales, and had been acquainted with +some of the most remarkable <!-- page 137--><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>characters +who travelled the roads at that period; and let me be permitted to say +that many remarkable characters have travelled the roads of England, +of whom fame has never said a word. I loved to hear her anecdotes +of these people; some of whom I found had occasionally attempted to +lay violent hands either upon her person or effects, and had invariably +been humbled by her without the assistance of either justice or constable. +I could clearly see, however, that she was rather tired of England, +and wished for a change of scene; she was particularly fond of talking +of America, to which country her aspirations chiefly tended. She +had heard much of America, which had excited her imagination; for at +that time America was much talked of, on roads and in homesteads, at +least so said Belle, who had good opportunities of knowing, and most +people allowed that it was a good country for adventurous English. +The people who chiefly spoke against it, as she informed me, were soldiers +disbanded upon pensions, the sextons of village churches, and excisemen. +Belle had a craving desire to visit that country, and to wander with +cart and little animal amongst its forests; when I would occasionally +object, that she would be exposed to danger from strange and perverse +customers, she said that she had not wandered the roads of England so +long and alone, to be afraid of anything which might befal in America; +and that she hoped with God’s favour, to be able to take her own +part, and to give to perverse customers as good as they might bring. +She had a dauntless <!-- page 138--><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 138</span>heart +that same Belle: such was the staple of Belle’s conversation. +As for mine, I would endeavour to entertain her with strange dreams +of adventure, in which I figured in opaque forests, strangling wild +beasts, or discovering and plundering the hoards of dragons; and sometimes +I would narrate to her other things far more genuine—how I had +tamed savage mares, wrestled with Satan, and had dealings with ferocious +publishers. Belle had a kind heart, and would weep at the accounts +I gave her of my early wrestlings with the dark Monarch. She would +sigh, too, as I recounted the many slights and degradations I had received +at the hands of ferocious publishers. But she had the curiosity +of a woman; and once, when I talked to her of the triumphs which I had +achieved over unbroken mares, she lifted up her head and questioned +me as to the secret of the virtue which I possessed over the aforesaid +animals: whereupon I sternly reprimanded, and forthwith commanded her +to repeat the Armenian numerals; and, on her demurring, I made use of +words, to escape which she was glad to comply, saying the Armenian numerals +from one to a hundred, which numerals, as a punishment for her curiosity, +I made her repeat three times, loading her with the bitterest reproaches +whenever she committed the slightest error, either in accent or pronunciation, +which reproaches she appeared to bear with the greatest patience. +And now I have given a fair account of the manner in which Isopel Berners +and myself passed our time in the dingle.</p> +<h2><!-- page 139--><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>CHAPTER +XI.—ALE, GIVE THEM ALE, AND LET IT BE STRONG—A MAIN OF COCKS—LAVENGRO +CONSOLES THE LANDLORD, WHO PROPOUNDS A NOVEL PLAN FOR THE LIQUIDATION +OF DEBTS.</h2> +<p>Amongst other excursions, I went several times to the public-house, +to which I introduced the reader in a former chapter. I had experienced +such beneficial effects from the ale I had drunk on that occasion, that +I had wished to put its virtue to a frequent test; nor did the ale on +subsequent trials belie the good opinion which I had at first formed +of it. After each visit which I made to the public-house, I found +my frame stronger and my mind more cheerful than they had previously +been. The landlord appeared at all times glad to see me, and insisted +that I should sit within the bar, where, leaving his other guests to +be attended to by a niece of his who officiated as his housekeeper, +he would sit beside me and talk of matters concerning “the ring,” +indulging himself with a cigar and a glass of sherry, which he told +me was his favourite wine, whilst I drank my ale. “I loves +the conversation of all you coves of the ring,” said he once, +“which is natural, seeing as how I have fought in a ring myself. +Ah, there is nothing like the ring; I wish I was not rather too old +to go again into it. I often think I should like to have another +rally—one more rally, and then—But there’s a time +for all things—youth will be <!-- page 140--><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>served, +every dog has his day, and mine has been a fine one—let me be +content. After beating Tom of Hopton, there was not much more +to be done in the way of reputation; I have long sat in my bar the wonder +and glory of this here neighbourhood. I’m content, as far +as reputation goes; I only wish money would come in a little faster; +however, the next main of cocks will bring me in something handsome—comes +off next Wednesday at --- have ventured ten five-pound notes—shouldn’t +say ventured either—run no risk at all, because why? I knows my +birds.” About ten days after this harangue, I called again, +at about three o’clock one afternoon. The landlord was seated +on a bench by a table in the common room, which was entirely empty; +he was neither smoking nor drinking, but sat with his arms folded, and +his head hanging down over his breast. At the sound of my step +he looked up. “Ah,” said he, “I am glad you +are come: I was just thinking about you.” “Thank you,” +said I; “it was very kind of you, especially at a time like this, +when your mind must be full of your good fortune. Allow me to +congratulate you on the sums of money you won by the main of cocks at +---. I hope you brought it all safe home.” “Safe +home,” said the landlord; “I brought myself safe home, and +that was all; came home without a shilling, regularly done, cleaned +out.” “I am sorry for that,” said I; “but +after you had won the money, you ought to have been satisfied, and not +risked it again. How did you lose it? I hope not by the +pea and thimble.” “Pea and thimble,” said the +landlord—“not I; those <!-- page 141--><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 141</span>confounded +cocks left me nothing to lose by the pea and thimble.” “Dear +me,” said I; “I thought that you knew your birds.” +“Well, so I did,” said the landlord, “I knew the birds +to be good birds, and so they proved, and would have won if better birds +had not been brought against them, of which I knew nothing, and so do +you see I am done, regularly done.” “Well,” +said I, “don’t be cast down; there is one thing of which +the cocks by their misfortune cannot deprive you—your reputation; +make the most of that, give up cock-fighting, and be content with the +custom of your house, of which you will always have plenty, as long +as you are the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood.”</p> +<p>The landlord struck the table before him violently with his fist. +“Confound my reputation!” said he. “No reputation +that I have will be satisfaction to my brewer for the seventy pounds +I owe him. Reputation won’t pass for the current coin of +this here realm; and let me tell you, that if it a’n’t backed +by some of it, it a’n’t a bit better than rotten cabbage, +as I have found. Only three weeks since I was, as I told you, +the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood; and people used to come and +look at me, and worship me; but as soon as it began to be whispered +about that I owed money to the brewer, they presently left off all that +kind of thing; and now, during the last three days, since the tale of +my misfortune with the cocks has got wind, almost everybody has left +off coming to the house, and the few who does, merely comes to insult +and flout me. It was only <!-- page 142--><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>last +night that fellow, Hunter, called me an old fool in my own kitchen here. +He wouldn’t have called me a fool a fortnight ago—’twas +I called him fool then, and last night he called me old fool; what do +you think of that? the man that beat Tom of Hopton to be called not +only a fool, but an old fool; and I hadn’t heart, with one blow +of this here fist into his face, to send his head ringing against the +wall; for when a man’s pocket is low, do you see, his heart a’n’t +much higher. But it is no use talking, something must be done. +I was thinking of you just as you came in, for you are just the person +that can help me.”</p> +<p>“If you mean,” said I, “to ask me to lend you the +money which you want, it will be to no purpose, as I have very little +of my own, just enough for my own occasions; it is true, if you desired +it, I would be your intercessor with the person to whom you owe the +money, though I should hardly imagine that anything I could say—” +“You are right there,” said the landlord; “much the +brewer would care for anything you could say on my behalf—your +going would be the very way to do me up entirely. A pretty opinion +he would have of the state of my affairs if I were to send him such +a ’cessor as you; and as for your lending me money, don’t +think I was ever fool enough to suppose either that you had any, or +if you had that you would be fool enough to lend me any. No, no, +the coves of the ring knows better; I have been in the ring myself, +and knows what fighting a cove is, and though I was fool enough to back +those birds, I was never quite fool enough to <!-- page 143--><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>lend +anybody money. What I am about to propose is something very different +from going to my landlord, or lending any capital; something which, +though it will put money into my pocket, will likewise put something +handsome into your own. I want to get up a fight in this here +neighbourhood, which would be sure to bring plenty of people to my house, +for a week before and after it takes place; and as people can’t +come without drinking, I think I could, during one fortnight, get off +for the brewer all the sour and unsaleable liquids he now has, which +people wouldn’t drink at any other time, and by that means, do +you see, liquidate my debt; then, by means of betting, making first +all right, do you see, I have no doubt that I could put something handsome +into my pocket and yours, for I should wish you to be the fighting man, +as I think I can depend upon you.” “You really must +excuse me,” said I, “I have no wish to figure as a pugilist, +besides there is such a difference in our ages; you may be the stronger +man of the two, and perhaps the hardest hitter, but I am in much better +condition, am more active on my legs, so that I am almost sure I should +have the advantage, for, as you very properly observed, ‘Youth +will be served.’” “Oh, I didn’t mean to +fight,” said the landlord. “I think I could beat you +if I were to train a little; but in the fight I propose I looks more +to the main chance than anything else. I question whether half +so many people could be brought together if you were to fight with me +as the person I have in view, or whether <!-- page 144--><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 144</span>there +would be half such opportunities for betting; for I am a man, do you +see; the person I wants you to fight with is not a man, but the young +woman you keeps company with.”</p> +<p>“The young woman I keep company with,” said I; “pray +what do you mean?”</p> +<p>“We will go into the bar, and have something,” said the +landlord, getting up. “My niece is out, and there is no +one in the house, so we can talk the matter over quietly.” +Thereupon I followed him into the bar, where, having drawn me a jug +of ale, helped himself as usual to a glass of sherry, and lighted a +cigar, he proceeded to explain himself further. “What I +wants is to get up a fight between a man and a woman; there never has +yet been such a thing in the ring, and the mere noise of the matter +would bring thousands of people together, quite enough to drink out, +for the thing should be close to my house, all the brewer’s stock +of liquids, both good and bad.” “But,” said +I, “you were the other day boasting of the respectability of your +house; do you think that a fight between a man and a woman close to +your establishment would add to its respectability?” “Confound +the respectability of my house,” said the landlord, “will +the respectability of my house pay the brewer, or keep the roof over +my head? No, no! when respectability won’t keep a man, do +you see, the best thing is to let it go and wander. Only let me +have my own way, and both the brewer, myself, and every one of us, will +be satisfied. And then the betting <!-- page 145--><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>—what +a deal we may make by the betting—and that we shall have all to +ourselves, you, I, and the young woman; the brewer will have no hand +in that. I can manage to raise ten pounds, and if by flashing +that about, I don’t manage to make a hundred, call me a horse.” +“But, suppose,” said I, “the party should lose, on +whom you sport your money, even as the birds did?” “We +must first make all right,” said the landlord, “as I told +you before; the birds were irrational beings, and therefore couldn’t +come to an understanding with the others, as you and the young woman +can. The birds fought fair; but I intend you and the young woman +should fight cross.” “What do you mean by cross?” +said I. “Come, come,” said the landlord, “don’t +attempt to gammon me; you in the ring, and pretend not to know what +fighting cross is! That won’t do, my fine fellow; but as +no one is near us, I will speak out. I intend that you and the +young woman should understand one another and agree beforehand which +should be beat; and if you take my advice you will determine between +you that the young woman shall be beat, as I am sure that the odds will +run high upon her, her character as a fist-woman being spread far and +wide, so that all the flats who think it will be all right, will back +her, as I myself would, if I thought it would be a fair thing.” +“Then,” said I, “you would not have us fight fair?” +“By no means,” said the landlord, “because why? +I conceives that a cross is a certainty to those who are in it, whereas +by the fair <!-- page 146--><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 146</span>thing +one may lose all he has.” “But,” said I, “you +said the other day that you liked the fair thing.” “That +was by way of gammon,” said the landlord, “just, do you +see, as a Parliament cove might say, speechifying from a barrel to a +set of flats, whom he means to sell. Come, what do you think of +the plan?” “It’s a very ingenious one,” +said I. “A’n’t it?” said the landlord. +“The folks in this neighbourhood are beginning to call me old +fool, but if they don’t call me something else, when they sees +me friends with the brewer, and money in my pocket, my name is not Catchpole. +Come, drink your ale, and go home to the young gentlewoman.”</p> +<p>“I am going,” said I, rising from my seat, after finishing +the remainder of the ale.</p> +<p>“Do you think she’ll have any objection?” said +the landlord.</p> +<p>“To do what?” said I.</p> +<p>“Why, to fight cross.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I do,” said I.</p> +<p>“But you will do your best to persuade her?”</p> +<p>“No, I will not,” said I.</p> +<p>“Are you fool enough to wish to fight fair?”</p> +<p>“No,” said I, “I am wise enough to wish not to +fight at all.”</p> +<p>“And how’s my brewer to be paid?” said the landlord.</p> +<p>“I really don’t know,” said I.</p> +<p>“I’ll change my religion,” said the landlord.</p> +<h2><!-- page 147--><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>CHAPTER +XII.—ANOTHER VISIT FROM THE MAN IN BLACK: HIS ESTIMATE OF MEZZOFANTE.</h2> +<p>One evening Belle and myself received another visit from the man +in black. After a little conversation of not much importance, +I asked him whether he would not take some refreshment, assuring him +that I was now in possession of some very excellent Hollands which, +with a glass, a jug of water, and a lump of sugar, were heartily at +his service; he accepted my offer, and Belle going with a jug to the +spring, from which she was in the habit of procuring water for tea, +speedily returned with it full of the clear, delicious water of which +I have already spoken. Having placed the jug by the side of the +man in black, she brought him a glass and spoon, and a teacup, the latter +containing various lumps of snowy-white sugar: in the meantime I had +produced a bottle of the stronger liquid. The man in black helped +himself to some water, and likewise to some Hollands, the proportion +of water being about two-thirds; then adding a lump of sugar, he stirred +the whole up, tasted it, and said that it was good.</p> +<p>“This is one of the good things of life,” he added, after +a short pause.</p> +<p>“What are the others?” I demanded.</p> +<p>“There is Malvoisia sack,” said the man in black, “and +partridge, and beccafico.”</p> +<p>“And what do you say to high mass?” said I.</p> +<p><!-- page 148--><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>“High +mass!” said the man in black; “however,” he continued, +after a pause, “I will be frank with you; I came to be so; I may +have heard high mass on a time, and said it too; but as for any predilection +for it, I assure you I have no more than for a long High Church sermon.”</p> +<p>“You speak à la Margutte?” said I.</p> +<p>“Margutte!” said the man in black, musingly. “Margutte?”</p> +<p>“You have read Pulci, I suppose?” said I.</p> +<p>“Yes, yes,” said the man in black, laughing; “I +remember.”</p> +<p>“He might be rendered into English,” said I, “something +in this style:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“‘To which Margutte answered with a sneer,<br /> +I like the blue no better than the black,<br /> +My faith consists alone in savoury cheer,<br /> +In roasted capons, and in potent sack;<br /> +But, above all, in famous gin and clear,<br /> +Which often lays the Briton on his back,<br /> +With lump of sugar, and with lymph from well,<br /> +I drink it, and defy the fiends of hell.’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“He! he! he!” said the man in black; “that is more +than Mezzofante could have done for a stanza of Byron.”</p> +<p>“A clever man,” said I.</p> +<p>“Who?” said the man in black.</p> +<p>“Mezzofante di Bologna.”</p> +<p>“He! he! he!” said the man in black; “now I know +that you are not a Gypsy, at least a soothsayer; no soothsayer would +have said that—”</p> +<p><!-- page 149--><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>“Why,” +said I, “does he not understand five-and-twenty tongues?”</p> +<p>“O yes,” said the man in black; “and five-and-twenty +added to them; but—he! he! it was principally from him who is +certainly the Prince of Philologists that I formed my opinion of the +sect.”</p> +<p>“You ought to speak of him with more respect,” said I; +“I have heard say that he has done good service to your see.”</p> +<p>“O yes,” said the man in black; “he has done good +service to our see, that is, in his way; when the neophytes of the propaganda +are to be examined in the several tongues in which they are destined +to preach, he is appointed to question them, the questions being first +written down for him, or else, he! he! he! Of course you know +Napoleon’s estimate of Mezzofante; he sent for the linguist from +motives of curiosity, and after some discourse with him, told him that +he might depart; then turning to some of his generals, he observed, +‘Nous avons eu ici un exemple qu’un homme peut avoir beaucoup +de paroles avec bien peu d’esprit.’”</p> +<p>“You are ungrateful to him,” said I; “well, perhaps, +when he is dead and gone you will do him justice.”</p> +<p>“True,” said the man in black; “when he is dead +and gone, we intend to erect him a statue of wood, on the left-hand +side of the door of the Vatican library.”</p> +<p>“Of wood?” said I.</p> +<p>“He was the son of a carpenter, you know,” said the man +in black; “the figure will be of wood for no other reason, I assure +you; he! he!”</p> +<p><!-- page 150--><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>“You +should place another statue on the right.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps we shall,” said the man in black; “but +we know of no one amongst the philologists of Italy, nor, indeed, of +the other countries, inhabited by the faithful worthy, to sit parallel +in effigy with our illustrissimo; when, indeed, we have conquered those +regions of the perfidious by bringing the inhabitants thereof to the +true faith, I have no doubt that we shall be able to select one worthy +to bear him company, one whose statue shall be placed on the right hand +of the library, in testimony of our joy at his conversion; for, as you +know, ‘There is more joy,’ etc.”</p> +<p>“Wood?” said I.</p> +<p>“I hope not,” said the man in black; “no, if I +be consulted as to the material for the statue, I should strongly recommend +bronze.”</p> +<p>And when the man in black had said this, he emptied his second tumbler +of its contents, and prepared himself another.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII.—THE MAN IN BLACK DISCUSSES THE FOIBLES OF +THE ENGLISH—HIS SCHEMES FOR WINNING OVER THE ARISTOCRACY, THE +MIDDLE CLASS, AND THE RABBLE—HORSEFLESH AND BITTER ALE.</h2> +<p>“So you hope to bring these regions again beneath the banner +of the Roman see?” said I; after the man in black had prepared +the beverage, and tasted it.</p> +<p>“Hope,” said the man in black; “how can we fail? +<!-- page 151--><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 151</span>Is +not the Church of these regions going to lose its prerogative?”</p> +<p>“Its prerogative?”</p> +<p>“Yes; those who should be the guardians of the religion of +England are about to grant Papists emancipation and to remove the disabilities +from Dissenters, which will allow the Holy Father to play his own game +in England.”</p> +<p>On my inquiring how the Holy Father intended to play his game, the +man in black gave me to understand that he intended for the present +to cover the land with temples, in which the religion of Protestants +would be continually scoffed at and reviled.</p> +<p>On my observing that such behaviour would savour strongly of ingratitude, +the man in black gave me to understand that if I entertained the idea +that the See of Rome was ever influenced in its actions by any feeling +of gratitude I was much mistaken, assuring me that if the See of Rome +in any encounter should chance to be disarmed, and its adversary, from +a feeling of magnanimity, should restore the sword which had been knocked +out of its hand, the See of Rome always endeavoured on the first opportunity +to plunge the said sword into its adversary’s bosom,—conduct +which the man in black seemed to think was very wise, and which he assured +me had already enabled it to get rid of a great many troublesome adversaries, +and would, he had no doubt, enable it to get rid of a great many more.</p> +<p>On my attempting to argue against the propriety of such behaviour, +the man in black cut the matter short, <!-- page 152--><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 152</span>by +saying, that if one party was a fool he saw no reason why the other +should imitate it in its folly.</p> +<p>After musing a little while I told him that emancipation had not +yet passed through the legislature, and that perhaps it never would, +reminding him that there was often many a slip between the cup and the +lip; to which observation the man in black agreed, assuring me, however, +that there was no doubt that emancipation would be carried, inasmuch +as there was a very loud cry at present in the land; a cry of “tolerance,” +which had almost frightened the Government out of its wits; who, to +get rid of the cry, was going to grant all that was asked in the way +of toleration, instead of telling the people to “Hold their nonsense,” +and cutting them down, provided they continued bawling longer.</p> +<p>I questioned the man in black with respect to the origin of this +cry; but he said to trace it to its origin would require a long history; +that, at any rate, such a cry was in existence, the chief raisers of +it being certain of the nobility, called Whigs, who hoped by means of +it to get into power, and to turn out certain ancient adversaries of +theirs called Tories, who were for letting things remain <i>in statu +quo</i>; that these Whigs were backed by a party amongst the people +called Radicals, a specimen of whom I had seen in the public-house; +a set of fellows who were always in the habit of bawling against those +in place; “and so,” he added, “by means of these parties, +and the hubbub which the Papists and other smaller sects are making, +a general emancipation will be carried, and the Church of England humbled, +<!-- page 153--><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>which +is the principal thing which the See of Rome cares for.” <a name="citation153"></a><a href="#footnote153">{153}</a></p> +<p>On my telling the man in black that I believed that even among the +high dignitaries of the English Church there were many who wished to +grant perfect freedom to religions of all descriptions, he said: “He +was aware that such was the fact, and that such a wish was anything +but wise, inasmuch as if they had any regard for the religion they professed, +they ought to stand by it through thick and thin, proclaiming it to +be the only true one, and denouncing all others, in an alliterative +style, as dangerous and damnable; whereas, by their present conduct, +they are bringing their religion into contempt with the people at large, +who would never continue long attached to a Church, the ministers of +which did not stand up for it, and likewise cause their own brethren, +who had a clearer notion of things, to be ashamed of belonging to it. +I speak advisedly,” said he, in continuation; “there is +one Platitude.”</p> +<p>“And I hope there is only one,” said I; “you surely +would not adduce the likes and dislikes of that poor silly fellow as +the criterions of the opinions of any party?”</p> +<p>“You know him,” said the man in black; “nay, I +heard you mention him in the public-house; the fellow is not very wise, +I admit, but he has sense enough to know, that unless a Church can make +people hold their tongues when it thinks fit, it is scarcely deserving +the <!-- page 154--><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 154</span>name +of a Church; no, I think that the fellow is not such a very bad stick, +and that upon the whole he is, or rather was, an advantageous specimen +of the High Church English clergy, who, for the most part, so far from +troubling their heads about persecuting people, only think of securing +tithes, eating their heavy dinners, puffing out their cheeks with importance +on country justice benches, and occasionally exhibiting their conceited +wives, hoyden daughters, and gawky sons at country balls, whereas Platitude—”</p> +<p>“Stop,” said I; “you said in the public-house that +the Church of England was a persecuting Church, and here in the dingle +you have confessed that one section of it is willing to grant perfect +freedom to the exercise of all religions, and the other only thinks +of leading an easy life.”</p> +<p>“Saying a thing in the public-house is a widely different thing +from saying it in the dingle,” said the man in black; “had +the Church of England been a persecuting Church, it would not stand +in the position in which it stands at present; it might, with its opportunities, +have spread itself over the greater part of the world. I was about +to observe, that instead of practising the indolent habits of his High +Church brethren, Platitude would be working for his money, preaching +the proper use of fire and faggot, or rather of the halter and the whipping-post, +encouraging mobs to attack the houses of Dissenters, employing spies +to collect the scandal of neighbourhoods, in order that he might use +it for sacerdotal purposes, and, in fact, endeavouring to turn an English +parish into something like a Jesuit benefice in the south of France.’</p> +<p><!-- page 155--><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>“He +tried that game,” said I, “and the parish said—‘Pooh, +pooh,’ and, for the most part, went over to the Dissenters.”</p> +<p>“Very true,” said the man in black, taking a sip at his +glass, “but why were the Dissenters allowed to preach? why were +they not beaten on the lips till they spat out blood, with a dislodged +tooth or two? Why, but because the authority of the Church of +England has, by its own fault, become so circumscribed that Mr. Platitude +was not able to send a host of beadles and sbirri to their chapel to +bring them to reason, on which account Mr. Platitude is very properly +ashamed of his Church, and is thinking of uniting himself with one which +possesses more vigour and authority.”</p> +<p>“It may have vigour and authority,” said I, “in +foreign lands, but in these kingdoms the day for practising its atrocities +is gone by. It is at present almost below contempt, and is obliged +to sue for grace <i>in formâ pauperis</i>.”</p> +<p>“Very true,” said the man in black, “but let it +once obtain emancipation, and it will cast its slough, put on its fine +clothes, and make converts by thousands. ‘What a fine Church,’ +they’ll say; ‘with what authority it speaks—no doubts, +no hesitation, no sticking at trifles.’ What a contrast +to the sleepy English Church! they’ll go over to it by millions, +till it preponderates here over every other, when it will of course +be voted the dominant one; and then—and then—” and +here the man in black drank a considerable quantity of gin and water.</p> +<p>“What then?” said I.</p> +<p><!-- page 156--><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>“What +then?” said the man in black, “why, she will be true to +herself. Let Dissenters, whether they be Church of England, as +perhaps they may still call themselves, Methodist, or Presbyterian, +presume to grumble, and there shall be bruising of lips in pulpits, +tying up to whipping-posts, cutting off ears and noses—he! he! +the farce of King Log has been acted long enough; the time for Queen +Stork’s tragedy is drawing nigh;” and the man in black sipped +his gin and water in a very exulting manner.</p> +<p>“And this is the Church which, according to your assertion +in the public-house, never persecutes?”</p> +<p>“I have already given you an answer,” said the man in +black, “with respect to the matter of the public-house; it is +one of the happy privileges of those who belong to my Church to deny +in the public-house what they admit in the dingle; <a name="citation156"></a><a href="#footnote156">{156}</a> +we have high warranty for such double speaking. Did not the foundation-stone +of our Church, St. Peter, deny in the public house what he had previously +professed in the valley?”</p> +<p>“And do you think,” said I, “that the people of +England, who have shown aversion to anything in the shape of intolerance, +will permit such barbarities as you have described?”</p> +<p>“Let them become Papists,” said the man in black; “only +let the majority become Papists, and you will see.”</p> +<p>“They will never become so,” said I; “the good +sense of the people of England will never permit them to commit such +an absurdity.”</p> +<p><!-- page 157--><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>“The +good sense of the people of England?” said the man in black, filling +himself another glass.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said I; “the good sense of not only the +upper, but the middle and lower classes.”</p> +<p>“And of what description of people are the upper class?” +said the man in black, putting a lump of sugar into his gin and water.</p> +<p>“Very fine people,” said I, “monstrously fine people; +so, at least, they are generally believed to be.”</p> +<p>“He! he!” said the man in black; “only those think +them so who don’t know them. The male part of the upper +class are in youth a set of heartless profligates; in old age, a parcel +of poor, shaking, nervous paillards. The female part, worthy to +be the sisters and wives of such wretches, unmarried, full of cold vice, +kept under by vanity and ambition, but which, after marriage, they seek +not to restrain; in old age, abandoned to vapours and horrors, do you +think that such beings will afford any obstacle to the progress of the +Church in these regions, as soon as her movements are unfettered?”</p> +<p>“I cannot give an opinion; I know nothing of them, except from +a distance. But what think you of the middle classes?”</p> +<p>“Their chief characteristic,” said the man in black, +“is a rage for grandeur and gentility; and that same rage makes +us quite sure of them in the long run. Every thing that’s +lofty meets their unqualified approbation; whilst everything humble, +or, as they call it, ‘low,’ is scouted by them. They +begin to have a vague idea that the religion which they have hitherto +professed <!-- page 158--><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>is +low; at any rate that it is not the religion of the mighty ones of the +earth, of the great kings and emperors whose shoes they have a vast +inclination to kiss, nor was used by the grand personages of whom they +have read in their novels and romances, their Ivanhoes, their Marmions, +and their Ladies of the Lake.”</p> +<p>“Do you think that the writings of Scott have had any influence +in modifying their religious opinions?”</p> +<p>“Most certainly I do,” said the man in black. “The +writings of that man have made them greater fools than they were before. +All their conversation now is about gallant knights, princesses, and +cavaliers, with which his pages are stuffed—all of whom were Papists, +or very high Church, which is nearly the same thing; and they are beginning +to think that the religion of such nice sweet-scented gentry must be +something very superfine. Why, I know at Birmingham the daughter +of an ironmonger, who screeches to the piano the Lady of the Lake’s +hymn to the Virgin Mary, always weeps when Mary Queen of Scots is mentioned, +and fasts on the anniversary of the death of that very wise martyr, +Charles the First. Why, I would engage to convert such an idiot +to popery in a week, were it worth my trouble. O Cavaliere Gualtiero, +avete fatto molto in favore della Santa Sede!”</p> +<p>“If he has,” said I, “he has done it unwittingly; +I never heard before that he was a favourer of the popish delusion.”</p> +<p>“Only in theory,” said the man in black. “Trust +any of the clan MacSycophant for interfering openly and <!-- page 159--><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 159</span>boldly +in favour of any cause on which the sun does not shine benignantly. +Popery is at present, as you say, suing for grace in these regions <i>in +formâ pauperis</i>; but let royalty once take it up, let old gouty +George once patronize it, and I would consent to drink puddle-water, +if the very next time the canny Scot was admitted to the royal symposium +he did not say, ‘By my faith, yere Majesty, I have always thought, +at the bottom of my heart, that popery, as ill scrapit tongues ca’ +it, was a very grand religion; I shall be proud to follow your Majesty’s +example in adopting it.’”</p> +<p>“I doubt not,” said I, “that both gouty George +and his devoted servant will be mouldering in their tombs long before +Royalty in England thinks about adopting popery.”</p> +<p>“We can wait,” said the man in black; “in these +days of rampant gentility, there will be no want of Kings nor of Scots +about them.”</p> +<p>“But not Walters,” said I. <a name="citation159"></a><a href="#footnote159">{159}</a></p> +<p>“Our work has been already tolerably well done by one,” +said the man in black; “but if we wanted literature we should +never lack in these regions hosts of literary men of some kind or other +to eulogise us, <!-- page 160--><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>provided +our religion were in the fashion, and our popish nobles choose, and +they always do our bidding, to admit the canaille to their tables, their +kitchen tables. As for literature in general,” said he, +“the Santa Sede is not particularly partial to it, it may be employed +both ways. In Italy, in particular, it has discovered that literary +men are not always disposed to be lick-spittles.”</p> +<p>“For example, Dante,” said I.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said the man in black. “A dangerous +personage; that poem of his cuts both ways; and then there was Pulci, +that Morgante of his cuts both ways, or rather one way, and that sheer +against us; and then there was Aretino, who dealt so hard with the poveri +frati; all writers, at least Italian ones, are not lick spittles. +And then in Spain,—’tis true, Lope de Vega and Calderon +were most inordinate lick-spittles; the ‘Principe Constante’ +of the last is a curiosity in its way; and then the ‘Mary Stuart’ +of Lope; I think I shall recommend the perusal of that work to the Birmingham +ironmonger’s daughter; she has been lately thinking of adding +‘a slight knowledge of the magneeficent language of the Peninsula’ +to the rest of her accomplishments, he! he! he! but then there was Cervantes, +starving, but straight; he deals us some hard knocks in that second +part of his Quixote; then there were some of the writers of the picaresque +novels. No; all literary men are not lick-spittles, whether in +Italy or Spain, or, indeed, upon the Continent; it is only in England +that all—”</p> +<p>“Come,” said I, “mind what you are about to say +of English literary men.”</p> +<p><!-- page 161--><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 161</span>“Why +should I mind?” said the man in black, “there are no literary +men here. I have heard of literary men living in garrets, but +not in dingles, whatever philologists may do; I may, therefore, speak +out freely. It is only in England that literary men are invariably +lick-spittles; on which account, perhaps, they are so despised, even +by those who benefit by their dirty services. Look at your fashionable +novel writers, he! he! and above all at your newspaper editors, ho! +ho!”</p> +<p>“You will, of course, except the editors of the --- from your +censure of the last class?” said I.</p> +<p>“Them!” said the man in black; “why, they might +serve as models in the dirty trade to all the rest who practise it. +See how they bepraise their patrons, the grand Whig nobility, who hope, +by raising the cry of liberalism, and by putting themselves at the head +of the populace, to come into power shortly. I don’t wish +to be hard, at present, upon those Whigs,” he continued, “for +they are playing our game; but a time will come when, not wanting them, +we will kick them to a considerable distance: and then, when toleration +is no longer the cry, and the Whigs are no longer backed by the populace, +see whether the editors of the --- will stand by them; they will prove +themselves as expert lick-spittles of despotism as of liberalism. +Don’t think they will always bespatter the Tories and Austria.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “I am sorry to find that you entertain +so low an opinion of the spirit of English literary men; we will now +return, if you please, to the subject of the <!-- page 162--><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>middle +classes; I think your strictures upon them in general are rather too +sweeping—they are not altogether the foolish people you have described. +Look, for example, at that very powerful and numerous body the Dissenters, +the descendants of those sturdy Patriots who hurled Charles the Simple +from his throne.”</p> +<p>“There are some sturdy fellows amongst them, I do not deny,” +said the man in black, “especially amongst the preachers, clever +withal—two or three of that class nearly drove Mr. Platitude mad, +as perhaps you are aware, but they are not very numerous; and the old +sturdy sort of preachers are fast dropping off, and, as we observe with +pleasure, are generally succeeded by frothy coxcombs, whom it would +not be very difficult to gain over. But what we most rely upon +as an instrument to bring the Dissenters over to us is the mania for +gentility, which amongst them has of late become as great, and more +ridiculous, than amongst the middle classes belonging to the Church +of England. All the plain and simple fashions of their forefathers +they are either about to abandon, or have already done so. Look +at the most part of their chapels, no longer modest brick edifices, +situated in quiet and retired streets, but lunatic-looking erections, +in what the simpletons call the modern Gothic taste, of Portland-stone, +with a cross upon the top, and the site generally the most conspicuous +that can be found; and look at the manner in which they educate their +children, I mean those that are wealthy. They do not even wish +them to be Dissenters, ‘the sweet dears shall enjoy the <!-- page 163--><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>advantages +of good society, of which their parents were debarred.’ +So the girls are sent to tip-top boarding schools, where amongst other +trash they read ‘Rokeby,’ and are taught to sing snatches +from that high-flying ditty the ‘Cavalier—’</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, +and Brown,<br /> +With the barons of England, who fight for the crown?’—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>he! he! their own names. Whilst the lads are sent to those +hot-beds of pride and folly—colleges, whence they return with +a greater contempt for everything ‘low,’ and especially +for their own pedigree, than they went with. I tell you, friend, +the children of Dissenters, if not their parents, are going over to +the Church, as you call it, and the Church is going over to Rome.”</p> +<p>“I do not see the justice of that latter assertion at all,” +said I; “some of the Dissenters’ children may be coming +over to the Church of England, and yet the Church of England be very +far from going over to Rome.”</p> +<p>“In the high road for it, I assure you,” said the man +in black, “part of it is going to abandon, the rest to lose their +prerogative, and when a church no longer retains its prerogative, it +speedily loses its own respect, and that of others.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “if the higher classes have all +the vices and follies which you represent, on which point I can say +nothing, as I have never mixed with them; and even supposing the middle +classes are the foolish beings you would fain make them, and which I +do <!-- page 164--><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>not +believe them as a body to be, you would still find some resistance amongst +the lower classes. I have a considerable respect for their good +sense and independence of character; but pray let me hear your opinion +of them.”</p> +<p>“As for the lower classes,” said the man in black, “I +believe them to be the most brutal wretches in the world, the most addicted +to foul feeding, foul language, and foul vices of every kind; wretches +who have neither love for country, religion, nor anything save their +own vile selves. You surely do not think that they would oppose +a change of religion? why, there is not one of them but would hurrah +for the Pope, or Mahomet, for the sake of a hearty gorge and a drunken +bout, like those which they are treated with at election contests.”</p> +<p>“Has your church any followers amongst them?” said I.</p> +<p>“Wherever there happens to be a Romish family of considerable +possessions,” said the man in black, “our church is sure +to have followers of the lower class, who have come over in the hope +of getting something in the shape of dole or donation. As, however, +the Romish is not yet the dominant religion, and the clergy of the English +establishment have some patronage to bestow, the churches are not quite +deserted by the lower classes; yet were the Romish to become the established +religion, they would, to a certainty, all go over to it; you can scarcely +imagine what a self-interested set they are—for example, the landlord +of that public-house in which I first met you, having lost a sum of +money upon a <!-- page 165--><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>cock-fight, +and his affairs in consequence being in a bad condition, is on the eve +of coming over to us, in the hope that two old Popish females of property, +whom I confess, will advance him a sum of money to set him up again +in the world.”</p> +<p>“And what could have put such an idea into the poor fellow’s +head?” said I.</p> +<p>“Oh! he and I have had some conversation upon the state of +his affairs,” said the man in black; “I think he might make +a rather useful convert in these parts, provided things take a certain +turn, as they doubtless will. It is no bad thing to have a fighting +fellow, who keeps a public-house, belonging to one’s religion. +He has been occasionally employed as a bully at elections by the Tory +party, and he may serve us in the same capacity. The fellow comes +of a good stock; I heard him say that his father headed the High Church +mob, who sacked and burnt Priestley’s house at Birmingham towards +the end of the last century.”</p> +<p>“A disgraceful affair,” said I.</p> +<p>“What do you mean by a disgraceful affair?” said the +man in black. “I assure you that nothing has occurred for +the last fifty years which has given the High Church party so much credit +in the eyes of Rome as that; we did not imagine that the fellows had +so much energy. Had they followed up that affair, by twenty others +of a similar kind, they would by this time have had everything in their +own power; but they did not, and, as a necessary consequence, they are +reduced to almost nothing.”</p> +<p><!-- page 166--><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>“I +suppose,” said I, “that your church would have acted very +differently in its place.”</p> +<p>“It has always done so,” said the man in black, coolly +sipping. “Our church has always armed the brute-population +against the genius and intellect of a country, provided that same intellect +and genius were not willing to become its instruments and eulogists; +and provided we once obtain a firm hold here again, we would not fail +to do so. We would occasionally stuff the beastly rabble with +horseflesh and bitter ale, and then halloo them on against all those +who were obnoxious to us.”</p> +<p>“Horseflesh and bitter ale!” I replied.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said the man in black; “horseflesh and bitter +ale, the favourite delicacies of their Saxon ancestors, who were always +ready to do our bidding after a liberal allowance of such cheer. +There is a tradition in our church, that before the rabble of Penda, +at the instigation of Austin, attacked and massacred the presbyterian +monks of Bangor, they had been allowed a good gorge of horseflesh and +bitter ale. He! he! he!” continued the man in black, “what +a fine spectacle to see such a mob, headed by a fellow like our friend, +the landlord, sack the house of another Priestley.”</p> +<p>“Then you don’t deny that we have had a Priestley,” +said I, “and admit the possibility of our having another? +You were lately observing that all English literary men were sycophants?”</p> +<p>“Lick-spittles,” said the man in black; “yes, I +admit that you have had a Priestley, but he was a Dissenter <!-- page 167--><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>of +the old sort; you have had him, and perhaps may have another.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps we may,” said I. “But with respect +to the lower classes, have you mixed much with them?”</p> +<p>“I have mixed with all classes,” said the man in black, +“and with the lower not less than the upper and middle, they are +much as I have described them; and of the three, the lower are the worst. +I never knew one of them that possessed the slightest principle . . +.</p> +<p>“I ought to know something of the English people,” he +continued, after a moment’s pause; “I have been many years +amongst them labouring in the cause of the Church.”</p> +<p>“Your See must have had great confidence in your powers, when +it selected you to labour for it in these parts?” said I.</p> +<p>“They chose me,” said the man in black, “principally +because, being of British extraction and education, I could speak the +English language and bear a glass of something strong. It is the +opinion of my See, that it would hardly do to send a missionary into +a country like this who is not well versed in English—a country +where they think, so far from understanding any language besides his +own, scarcely one individual in ten speaks his own intelligibly; or +an ascetic person where, as they say, high and low, male and female, +are, at some period of their lives, fond of a renovating glass, as it +is styled, in other words, of tippling.”</p> +<p><!-- page 168--><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 168</span>“Your +See appears to entertain a very strange opinion of the English,” +said I.</p> +<p>“Not altogether an unjust one,” said the man in black, +lifting the glass to his mouth.</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “it is certainly very kind on its +part to wish to bring back such a set of beings beneath its wing.”</p> +<p>“Why, as to the kindness of my See,” said the man in +black, “I have not much to say; my See has generally in what it +does a tolerably good motive; these heretics possess in plenty what +my See has a great hankering for, and can turn to a good account—money!”</p> +<p>“The founder of the Christian religion cared nothing for money,” +said I.</p> +<p>“What have we to do with what the founder of the Christian +religion cared for?” said the man in black; “how could our +temples be built, and our priests supported without money? But +you are unwise to reproach us with a desire of obtaining money; you +forget that your own church, if the Church of England be your own church, +as I suppose it is, from the willingness which you displayed in the +public-house to fight for it, is equally avaricious; look at your greedy +Bishops, and your corpulent Rectors! do they imitate Christ in his disregard +for money? Go to! you might as well tell me that they imitate +Christ in his meekness and humility.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “whatever their faults may be, +you can’t say that they go to Rome for money.”</p> +<p><!-- page 169--><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 169</span>The +man in black made no direct answer, but appeared by the motion of his +lips to be repeating something to himself.</p> +<p>“I see your glass is again empty,” said I; “perhaps +you will replenish it.”</p> +<p>The man in black arose from his seat, adjusted his habiliments which +were rather in disorder, and placed upon his head his hat, which he +had laid aside, then, looking at me, who was still lying upon the ground, +he said—“I might, perhaps, take another glass, though I +believe I have had quite as much as I can well bear; but I do not wish +to hear you utter anything more this evening after that last observation +of yours—it is quite original; I will meditate upon it on my pillow +this night after having said an ave and a pater—go to Rome for +money!” He then made Belle a low bow, slightly motioned +to me with his hand, as if bidding farewell, and then left the dingle +with rather uneven steps.</p> +<p>“Go to Rome for money,” I heard him say as he ascended +the winding path, “he! he! he! Go to Rome for money, ho! +ho! ho!”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV.—LIFE IN THE DINGLE—ISOPEL IS INOCULATED +WITH TONGUES—A THUNDERSTORM.</h2> +<p>Nearly three days elapsed without anything of particular moment occurring. +Belle drove the little cart containing her merchandise about the neighbourhood, +<!-- page 170--><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 170</span>returning +to the dingle towards the evening. As for myself, I kept within +my wooded retreat, working during the periods of her absence leisurely +at my forge. Having observed that the quadruped which my companion +drove was as much in need of shoes as my own had been some time previously, +I had determined to provide it with a set, and during the aforesaid +periods occupied myself in preparing them. As I was employed three +mornings and afternoons about them, I am sure that the reader will agree +that I worked leisurely, or rather lazily. On the third day Belle +arrived somewhat later than usual; I was lying on my back at the bottom +of the dingle, employed in tossing up the shoes, which I had produced, +and catching them as they fell, some being always in the air mounting +or descending, somewhat after the fashion of the waters of a fountain.</p> +<p>“Why have you been absent so long?” said I to Belle; +“it must be long past four by the day.”</p> +<p>“I have been almost killed by the heat,” said Belle; +“I was never out in a more sultry day—the poor donkey, too, +could scarcely move along.”</p> +<p>“He shall have fresh shoes,” said I, continuing my exercise: +“here they are, quite ready; to-morrow I will tack them on.”</p> +<p>“And why are you playing with them in that manner?” said +Belle.</p> +<p>“Partly in triumph at having made them, and partly to show +that I can do something besides making them; it is not every one, who, +after having made a set of <!-- page 171--><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>horse-shoes, +can keep them going up and down in the air, without letting one fall.”</p> +<p>“One has now fallen on your chin,” said Belle.</p> +<p>“And another on my cheek,” said I, getting up; “it +is time to discontinue the game, for the last shoe drew blood.”</p> +<p>Belle went to her own little encampment; and as for myself, after +having flung the donkey’s shoes into my tent, I put some fresh +wood on the fire, which was nearly out, and hung the kettle over it. +I then issued forth from the dingle, and strolled round the wood that +surrounded it; for a long time I was busied in meditation, looking at +the ground, striking with my foot, half unconsciously, the tufts of +grass and thistles that I met in my way. After some time, I lifted +up my eyes to the sky, at first vacantly, and then with more attention, +turning my head in all directions for a minute or two; after which I +returned to the dingle. Isopel was seated near the fire, over +which the kettle was now hung; she had changed her dress—no signs +of the dust and fatigue of her late excursion remained; she had just +added to the fire a small billet of wood, two or three of which I had +left beside it; the fire cracked, and a sweet odour filled the dingle.</p> +<p>“I am fond of sitting by a wood fire,” said Belle, “when +abroad, whether it be hot or cold; I love to see the flames dart out +of the wood; but what kind is this, and where did you get it?”</p> +<p>“It is ash,” said I, “green ash. Somewhat +less than a week ago, whilst I was wandering along the road <!-- page 172--><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 172</span>by +the side of a wood, I came to a place where some peasants were engaged +in cutting up and clearing away a confused mass of fallen timber: a +mighty-aged oak had given way the night before, and in its fall had +shivered some smaller trees; the upper part of the oak, and the fragments +of the rest, lay across the road. I purchased, for a trifle, a +bundle or two, and the wood on the fire is part of it—ash, green +ash.”</p> +<p>“That makes good the old rhyme,” said Belle, “which +I have heard sung by the old women in the great house:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Ash, when green,<br /> +Is fire for a queen.’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“And on fairer form of queen, ash fire never shone,” +said I, “than on thine, O beauteous queen of the dingle.”</p> +<p>“I am half disposed to be angry with you, young man,” +said Belle.</p> +<p>“And why not entirely?” said I.</p> +<p>Belle made no reply.</p> +<p>“Shall I tell you?” I demanded. “You had +no objection to the first part of the speech, but you did not like being +called queen of the dingle. Well, if I had the power, I would +make you queen of something better than the dingle—Queen of China. +Come, let us have tea.”</p> +<p>“Something less would content me,” said Belle, sighing +as she rose to prepare our evening meal.</p> +<p>So we took tea together, Belle and I.</p> +<p>“How delicious <!-- page 173--><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>tea +is after a hot summer’s day, and a long walk!” said she.</p> +<p>“I daresay it is most refreshing then,” said I; “but +I have heard people say that they most enjoy it on a cold winter’s +night, when the kettle is hissing on the fire, and their children playing +on the hearth.”</p> +<p>Belle sighed. “Where does tea come from?” she presently +demanded.</p> +<p>“From China,” said I; “I just now mentioned it, +and the mention of it put me in mind of tea.”</p> +<p>“What kind of country is China?”</p> +<p>“I know very little about it; all I know is, that it is a very +large country far to the East, but scarcely large enough to contain +its inhabitants, who are so numerous, that though China does not cover +one-ninth part of the world, its inhabitants amount to one-third of +the population of the world.”</p> +<p>“And do they talk as we do?”</p> +<p>“O no! I know nothing of their language; but I have heard +that it is quite different from all others, and so difficult that none +but the cleverest people amongst foreigners can master it, on which +account, perhaps, only the French pretend to know anything about it.”</p> +<p>“Are the French so very clever, then?” said Belle.</p> +<p>“They say there are no people like them, at least in Europe. +But talking of Chinese reminds me that I have not for some time past +given you a lesson in Armenian. The word for tea in Armenian is—by-the-bye, +what is the Armenian word for tea?”</p> +<p><!-- page 174--><a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>“That’s +your affair, not mine,” said Belle; “it seems hard that +the master should ask the scholar.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “whatever the word may be in Armenian, +it is a noun; and as we have never yet declined an Armenian noun together, +we may as well take this opportunity of declining one. Belle, +there are ten declensions in Armenian!”</p> +<p>“What’s a declension?”</p> +<p>“The way of declining a noun.”</p> +<p>“Then, in the civilest way imaginable, I decline the noun. +Is that a declension?”</p> +<p>“You should never play on words; to do so is low, vulgar, smelling +of the pothouse, the workhouse. Belle, I insist on your declining +an Armenian noun.”</p> +<p>“I have done so already,” said Belle.</p> +<p>“If you go on in this way,” said I, “I shall decline +taking any more tea with you. Will you decline an Armenian noun?”</p> +<p>“I don’t like the language,” said Belle. +“If you must teach me languages, why not teach me French or Chinese?”</p> +<p>“I know nothing of Chinese; and as for French, none but a Frenchman +is clever enough to speak it—to say nothing of teaching; no, we +will stick to Armenian, unless, indeed, you would prefer Welsh!”</p> +<p>“Welsh, I have heard, is vulgar,” said Belle; “so, +if I must learn one of the two, I will prefer Armenian, which I never +heard of till you mentioned it to me; though of the two, I really think +Welsh sounds best.”</p> +<p>“The Armenian noun,” said I, “which I propose <!-- page 175--><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>for +your declension this night, is Dyèr, which signifieth Lord, or +Master.”</p> +<p>“It soundeth very like tyrant,” said Belle.</p> +<p>“I care not what it sounds like,” said I; “it is +the word I chose, though it is not of the first declension. Master, +with all its variations, being the first noun, the sound of which I +would have you learn from my lips. Come, let us begin—</p> +<p>“A master Dyer, Of a master, Dyèrn. Repeat—”</p> +<p>“The word sounds very strange to me,” said Belle. +“However, to oblige you I will do my best;” and thereupon +Belle declined master in Armenian.</p> +<p>“You have declined the noun very well,” said I; “that +is in the singular number; we will now go to the plural.”</p> +<p>“What is the plural?” said Belle.</p> +<p>“That which implies more than one, for example, masters; you +shall now go through masters in Armenian.”</p> +<p>“Never,” said Belle, “never; it is bad to have +one master, but more I would never bear, whether in Armenian or English.”</p> +<p>“You do not understand,” said I; “I merely want +you to decline masters in Armenian.”</p> +<p>“I do decline them; I will have nothing to do with them, nor +with master either; I was wrong to—What sound is that?”</p> +<p>“I did not hear it, but I dare say it is thunder; in Armenian—”</p> +<p>“Never mind what it is in Armenian; but why do you think it +is thunder?”</p> +<p><!-- page 176--><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>“Ere +I returned from my stroll, I looked up into the heavens, and by their +appearance I judged that a storm was nigh at hand.”</p> +<p>“And why did you not tell me so?”</p> +<p>“You never asked me about the state of the atmosphere, and +I am not in the habit of giving my opinion to people on any subject, +unless questioned. But, setting that aside, can you blame me for +not troubling you with forebodings about storm and tempest, which might +have prevented the pleasure you promised yourself in drinking tea, or +perhaps a lesson in Armenian, though you pretend to dislike the latter?”</p> +<p>“My dislike is not pretended,” said Belle; “I hate +the sound of it, but I love my tea, and it was kind of you not to wish +to cast a cloud over my little pleasures; the thunder came quite time +enough to interrupt it without being anticipated—there is another +peal—I will clear away, and see that my tent is in a condition +to resist the storm, and I think you had better bestir yourself.”</p> +<p>Isopel departed, and I remained seated on my stone, as nothing belonging +to myself required any particular attention. In about a quarter +of an hour she returned, and seated herself upon her stool.</p> +<p>“How dark the place is become since I left you,” said +she; “just as if night were just at hand.”</p> +<p>“Look up at the sky,” said I; “and you will not +wonder; it is all of a deep olive. The wind is beginning to rise; +hark how it moans among the branches; and see how their tops are bending—it +<!-- page 177--><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 177</span>brings +dust on its wings—I felt some fall on my face; and what is this, +a drop of rain?”</p> +<p>“We shall have plenty anon,” said Belle; “do you +hear? it already begins to hiss upon the embers; that fire of ours will +soon be extinguished.”</p> +<p>“It is not probable that we shall want it,” said I, “but +we had better seek shelter: let us go into my tent.”</p> +<p>“Go in,” said Belle, “but you go in alone; as for +me, I will seek my own.”</p> +<p>“You are right,” said I, “to be afraid of me; I +have taught you to decline master in Armenian.”</p> +<p>“You almost tempt me,” said Belle, “to make you +decline mistress in English.”</p> +<p>“To make matters short,” said I, “I decline a mistress.”</p> +<p>“What do you mean?” said Belle, angrily.</p> +<p>“I have merely done what you wished me,” said I, “and +in your own style; there is no other way of declining anything in English, +for in English there are no declensions.”</p> +<p>“The rain is increasing,” said Belle.</p> +<p>“It is so,” said I; “I shall go to my tent; you +may come, if you please; I do assure you I am not afraid of you.”</p> +<p>“Nor I of you,” said Belle; “so I will come. +Why should I be afraid? I can take my own part; that is—”</p> +<p>We went into the tent and sat down, and now the rain began to pour +with vehemence. “I hope we <!-- page 178--><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 178</span>shall +not be flooded in this hollow,” said I to Belle.</p> +<p>“There is no fear of that,” said Belle; “the wandering +people, amongst other names, call it the dry hollow. I believe +there is a passage somewhere or other by which the wet is carried off. +There must be a cloud right above us, it is so dark. Oh! what +a flash!”</p> +<p>“And what a peal!” said I; “that is what the Hebrews +call Koul Adonai—the voice of the Lord. Are you afraid?”</p> +<p>“No,” said Belle, “I rather like to hear it.”</p> +<p>“You are right,” said I, “I am fond of the sound +of thunder myself. There is nothing like it: Koul Adonai behadar; +the voice of the Lord is a glorious voice, as the prayer-book version +hath it.”</p> +<p>“There is something awful in it,” said Belle; “and +then the lightning, the whole dingle is now in a blaze.”</p> +<p>“‘The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and +discovereth the thick bushes.’ As you say, there is something +awful in thunder.”</p> +<p>“There are all kinds of noises above us,” said Belle: +“surely I heard the crashing of a tree?”</p> +<p>“‘The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedar trees,’” +said I, “but what you hear is caused by a convulsion of the air; +during a thunderstorm there are occasionally all kinds of aërial +noises. Ab Gwilym, who, next to King David, has best described +a thunderstorm, speaks of these aërial noises in the following +manner:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Astonied now I stand at strains,<br /> +As of ten thousand clanking chains;<br /> +<!-- page 179--><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 179</span>And +once, methought, that overthrown,<br /> +The welkin’s oaks came whelming down;<br /> +Upon my head upstarts my hair:<br /> +Why hunt abroad the hounds of air?<br /> +What cursed hag is screeching high,<br /> +Whilst crash goes all her crockery?’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>You would hardly believe, Belle, that though I offered at least ten +thousand lines nearly as good as those to the booksellers in London, +the simpletons were so blind to their interest as to refuse purchasing +them.”</p> +<p>“I don’t wonder at it,” said Belle, “especially +if such dreadful expressions frequently occur as that towards the end; +surely that was the crash of a tree?”</p> +<p>“Ah!” said I, “there falls the cedar tree—I +mean the sallow; one of the tall trees on the outside of the dingle +has been snapped short.”</p> +<p>“What a pity,” said Belle, “that the fine old oak, +which you saw the peasants cutting up, gave way the other night, when +scarcely a breath of air was stirring: how much better to have fallen +in a storm like this, the fiercest I remember.”</p> +<p>“I don’t think so,” said I; “after braving +a thousand tempests, it was meeter for it to fall of itself than to +be vanquished at last. But to return to Ab Gwilym’s poetry, +he was above culling dainty words, and spoke boldly his mind on all +subjects. Enraged with the thunder for parting him and Morfydd, +he says, at the conclusion of his ode,</p> +<blockquote><p>‘My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee,<br /> +For parting my dear pearl and me!’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 180--><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>“You +and I shall part; that is, I shall go to my tent if you persist in repeating +from him. The man must have been a savage. A poor wood-pigeon +has fallen dead.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said I, “there he lies just outside the +tent; often have I listened to his note when alone in this wilderness. +So you do not like Ab Gwilym; what say you to old Göthe:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Mist shrouds the night, and rack;<br /> +Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack!<br /> +Wildly the owls are flitting,<br /> +Hark to the pillars splitting<br /> +Of palaces verdant ever,<br /> +The branches quiver and sever,<br /> +The mighty stems are creaking,<br /> +The poor roots breaking and shrieking,<br /> +In wild mixt ruin down dashing,<br /> +O’er one another they’re crashing;<br /> +Whilst ’midst the rocks so hoary,<br /> +Whirlwinds hurry and worry.<br /> +Hear’st not, sister—’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“Hark!” said Belle, “hark!”</p> +<blockquote><p>“‘Hear’st not, sister, a chorus<br /> +Of voices?’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“No,” said Belle, “but I hear a voice.”</p> +<h2><!-- page 181--><a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span>CHAPTER +XV.—FIRST AID TO A POSTCHAISE AND A POSTILLION—MORE HOSPITALITY.</h2> +<p>I listened attentively, but I could hear nothing but the loud clashing +of branches, the pattering of rain, and the muttered growl of thunder. +I was about to tell Belle that she must have been mistaken, when I heard +a shout, indistinct, it is true, owing to the noises aforesaid, from +some part of the field above the dingle. “I will soon see +what’s the matter,” said I to Belle, starting up. +“I will go, too,” said the girl. “Stay where +you are,” said I; “if I need you I will call;” and, +without waiting for an answer, I hurried to the mouth of the dingle. +I was about a few yards only from the top of the ascent, when I beheld +a blaze of light, from whence I knew not; the next moment there was +a loud crash, and I appeared involved in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. +“Lord have mercy upon us,” I heard a voice say, and methought +I heard the plunging and struggling of horses. I had stopped short +on hearing the crash, for I was half stunned; but I now hurried forward, +and in a moment stood upon the plain. Here I was instantly aware +of the cause of the crash and the smoke. One of those balls, generally +called fire-balls, had fallen from the clouds, and was burning on the +plain at a short distance; and the voice which I had heard, and the +plunging, were as easily accounted for. Near the left-hand corner +of the grove which surrounded the dingle, and about ten <!-- page 182--><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 182</span>yards +from the fire-ball, I perceived a chaise, with a postillion on the box, +who was making efforts, apparently useless, to control his horses, which +were kicking and plunging in the highest degree of excitement. +I instantly ran towards the chaise, in order to offer what help was +in my power. “Help me,” said the poor fellow, as I +drew nigh; but before I could reach the horses, they had turned rapidly +round, one of the fore-wheels flew from its axle-tree, the chaise was +overset, and the postillion flung violently from his seat upon the field. +The horses now became more furious than before, kicking desperately, +and endeavouring to disengage themselves from the fallen chaise. +As I was hesitating whether to run to the assistance of the postillion, +or endeavour to disengage the animals, I heard the voice of Belle exclaiming, +“See to the horses, I will look after the man.” She +had, it seems, been alarmed by the crash which accompanied the fire-bolt, +and had hurried up to learn the cause. I forthwith seized the +horses by the heads, and used all the means I possessed to soothe and +pacify them, employing every gentle modulation of which my voice was +capable. Belle, in the meantime, had raised up the man, who was +much stunned by his fall; but presently recovering his recollection +to a certain degree, he came limping to me holding his hand to his right +thigh. “The first thing that must now be done,” said +I, “is to free these horses from the traces; can you undertake +to do so?” “I think I can,” said the man, looking +at me somewhat stupidly. “I will help,” said Belle, +and without loss of time <!-- page 183--><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>laid +hold of one of the traces. The man, after a short pause, also +set to work, and in a few minutes the horses were extricated. +“Now,” said I to the man, “what is next to be done?” +“I don’t know,” said he; “indeed, I scarcely +know anything; I have been so frightened by this horrible storm, and +so shaken by my fall.” “I think,” said I, “that +the storm is passing away, so cast your fears away too; and as for your +fall, you must bear it as lightly as you can. I will tie the horses +amongst those trees, and then we will all betake us to the hollow below.” +“And what’s to become of my chaise?” said the postillion, +looking ruefully on the fallen vehicle. “Let us leave the +chaise for the present,” said I; “we can be of no use to +it.” “I don’t like to leave my chaise lying +on the ground in this weather,” said the man, “I love my +chaise, and him whom it belongs to.” “You are quite +right to be fond of yourself,” said I, “on which account +I advise you to seek shelter from the rain as soon as possible.” +“I was not talking of myself,” said the man, “but +my master, to whom the chaise belongs.” “I thought +you called the chaise yours,” said I. “That’s +my way of speaking,” said the man; “but the chaise is my +master’s, and a better master does not live. Don’t +you think we could manage to raise up the chaise?” “And +what is to become of the horses?” said I. “I love +my horses well enough,” said the man; “but they will take +less harm than the chaise. We two can never lift up that chaise.” +“But we three can,” said Belle; “at least, I think +<!-- page 184--><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>so; +and I know where to find two poles which will assist us.” +“You had better go to the tent,” said I, “you will +be wet through.” “I care not for a little wetting,” +said Belle; “moreover, I have more gowns than one—see you +after the horses.” Thereupon, I led the horses past the +mouth of the dingle, to a place where a gap in the hedge afforded admission +to the copse or plantation, on the southern side. Forcing them +through the gap, I led them to a spot amidst the trees, which I deemed +would afford them the most convenient place for standing; then, darting +down into the dingle, I brought up a rope, and also the halter of my +own nag, and with these fastened them each to a separate tree in the +best manner I could. This done, I returned to the chaise and the +postillion. In a minute or two Belle arrived with two poles, which, +it seems, had long been lying, overgrown with brushwood, in a ditch +or hollow behind the plantation. With these both she and I set +to work in endeavouring to raise the fallen chaise from the ground.</p> +<p>We experienced considerable difficulty in this undertaking; at length, +with the assistance of the postillion, we saw our efforts crowned with +success—the chaise was lifted up, and stood upright on three wheels.</p> +<p>“We may leave it here in safety,” said I, “for +it will hardly move away on three wheels, even supposing it could run +by itself; I am afraid there is work here for a wheelwright, in which +case I cannot assist you; if you were in need of a blacksmith it would +be other wise.” “I don’t think either the wheel +or the axle <!-- page 185--><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 185</span>is +hurt,” said the postillion, who had been handling both; “it +is only the linch-pin having dropped out that caused the wheel to fly +off; if I could but find the linch-pin! though, perhaps, it fell out +a mile away.” “Very likely,” said I; “but +never mind the linch-pin, I can make you one, or something that will +serve: but I can’t stay here any longer, I am going to my place +below with this young gentlewoman, and you had better follow us.” +“I am ready,” said the man; and after lifting up the wheel +and propping it against the chaise, he went with us, slightly limping, +and with his hand pressed to his thigh.</p> +<p>As we were descending the narrow path, Belle leading the way, and +myself the last of the party, the postillion suddenly stopped short, +and looked about him. “Why do you stop?” said I. +“I don’t wish to offend you,” said the man; “but +this seems to be a strange place you are leading me into; I hope you +and the young gentlewoman, as you call her, don’t mean me any +harm—you seemed in a great hurry to bring me here.” +“We wished to get you out of the rain,” said I, “and +ourselves too; that is, if we can, which I rather doubt, for the canvas +of a tent is slight shelter in such a rain; but what harm should we +wish to do you?” “You may think I have money,” +said the man, “and I have some, but only thirty shillings, and +for a sum like that it would be hardly worth while to—” +“Would it not?” said I; “thirty shillings, after all, +are thirty shillings, and for what I know, half a dozen throats may +have been cut in this place for that sum <!-- page 186--><a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>at +the rate of five shillings each; moreover, there are horses, which would +serve to establish this young gentlewoman and myself in housekeeping, +provided we were thinking of such a thing.” “Then +I suppose I have fallen into pretty hands,” said the man, putting +himself in a posture of defence; “but I’ll show no craven +heart; and if you attempt to lay hands on me, I’ll try to pay +you in your own coin. I’m rather lamed in the leg, but I +can still use my fists; so come on, both of you, man and woman, if woman +this be, though she looks more like a grenadier.”</p> +<p>“Let me hear no more of this nonsense,” said Belle; “if +you are afraid, you can go back to your chaise—we only seek to +do you a kindness.”</p> +<p>“Why, he was just now talking about cutting throats,” +said the man. “You brought it on yourself,” said Belle; +“you suspected us, and he wished to pass a joke upon you; he would +not hurt a hair of your head, were your coach laden with gold, nor would +I.” “Well,” said the man, “I was wrong—here’s +my hand to both of you,” shaking us by the hands; “I’ll +go with you where you please, but I thought this a strange lonesome +place, though I ought not much to mind strange lonesome places, having +been in plenty of such when I was a servant in Italy, without coming +to any harm—come, let us move on, for ’tis a shame to keep +you two in the rain.”</p> +<p>So we descended the path which led into the depths of the dingle; +at the bottom I conducted the postillion to my tent, which, though the +rain dripped and trickled <!-- page 187--><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>through +it, afforded some shelter; there I bade him sit down on the log of wood, +while I placed myself as usual on my stone. Belle in the meantime +had repaired to her own place of abode. After a little time, I +produced a bottle of the cordial of which I have previously had occasion +to speak, and made my guest take a considerable draught. I then +offered him some bread and cheese, which he accepted with thanks. +In about an hour the rain had much abated. “What do you +now propose to do?” said I. “I scarcely know,” +said the man; “I suppose I must endeavour to put on the wheel +with your help.” “How far are you from your home?” +I demanded. “Upwards of thirty miles,” said the man. +“My master keeps an inn on the great north road, and from thence +I started early this morning with a family which I conveyed across the +country to a hall at some distance from here. On my return I was +beset by the thunderstorm, which frightened the horses, who dragged +the chaise off the road into the field above, and overset it as you +saw. I had proposed to pass the night at an inn about twelve miles +from here on my way back, though how I am to get there to-night I scarcely +know, even if we can put on the wheel, for, to tell you the truth, I +am shaken by my fall, and the smoulder and smoke of that fire-ball have +rather bewildered my head; I am, moreover, not much acquainted with +the way.”</p> +<p>“The best thing you can do,” said I, “is to pass +the night here; I will presently light a fire, and endeavour to make +you comfortable—in the morning we will see <!-- page 188--><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 188</span>to +your wheel.” “Well,” said the man, “I +shall be glad to pass the night here, provided I do not intrude, but +I must see to the horses.” Thereupon I conducted the man +to the place where the horses were tied. “The trees drip +rather upon them,” said the man, “and it will not do for +them to remain here all night; they will be better out in the field +picking the grass, but first of all they must have a good feed of corn;” +thereupon he went to his chaise, from which he presently brought two +small bags, partly filled with corn—into them he inserted the +mouths of the horses, tying them over their heads. “Here +we will leave them for a time,” said the man; “when I think +they have had enough, I will come back, tie their fore-legs, and let +them pick about.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI.—THE NEW-COMER TAKES KINDLY TO THE DINGLE AND +ITS OCCUPANTS, ABOUT WHOM HE FORMS HIS OWN OPINIONS.</h2> +<p>It might be about ten o’clock at night. Belle, the postillion, +and myself, sat just within the tent, by a fire of charcoal which I +had kindled in the chafing-pan. The man had removed the harness +from his horses, and, after tethering their legs, had left them for +the night in the field above, to regale themselves on what grass they +could find. The rain had long since entirely ceased, and the moon +and stars shone bright in the firmament, up to which, putting aside +the canvas, I occasionally <!-- page 189--><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>looked +from the depths of the dingle. Large drops of water, however, +falling now and then upon the tent from the neighbouring trees, would +have served, could we have forgotten it, to remind us of the recent +storm, and also a certain chilliness in the atmosphere, unusual to the +season, proceeding from the moisture with which the ground was saturated; +yet these circumstances only served to make our party enjoy the charcoal +fire the more. There we sat bending over it: Belle, with her long +beautiful hair streaming over her magnificent shoulders; the postillion +smoking his pipe, in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, having flung aside +his great coat, which had sustained a thorough wetting; and I without +my waggoner’s slop, of which, it being in the same plight, I had +also divested myself.</p> +<p>The new-comer was a well-made fellow of about thirty with an open +and agreeable countenance. I found him very well informed for +a man in his station, and with some pretensions to humour. After +we had discoursed for some time on indifferent subjects, the postillion, +who had exhausted his pipe, took it from his mouth, and, knocking out +the ashes upon the ground, exclaimed: “I little thought, when +I got up in the morning, that I should spend the night in such agreeable +company, and after such a fright.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “I am glad that your opinion of +us has improved; it is not long since you seemed to hold us in rather +a suspicious light.”</p> +<p>“And no wonder,” said the man, “seeing the place +you were taking me to. I was not a little, but <!-- page 190--><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 190</span>very +much afraid of ye both; and so I continued for some time, though, not +to show a craven heart, I pretended to be quite satisfied; but I see +I was altogether mistaken about ye. I thought you vagrant Gypsy +folks and trampers; but now—”</p> +<p>“Vagrant Gypsy folks and trampers,” said I; “and +what are we but people of that stamp?”</p> +<p>“Oh,” said the postillion, “if you wish to be thought +such, I am far too civil a person to contradict you, especially after +your kindness to me, but—”</p> +<p>“But!” said I; “what do you mean by but? +I would have you to know that I am proud of being a travelling blacksmith: +look at these donkey-shoes, I finished them this day.”</p> +<p>The postillion took the shoes and examined them. “So +you made these shoes?” he cried at last.</p> +<p>“To be sure I did; do you doubt it?”</p> +<p>“Not in the least,” said the man.</p> +<p>“Ah! ah!” said I, “I thought I should bring you +back to your original opinion. I am, then, a vagrant Gypsy body, +a tramper, a wandering blacksmith.”</p> +<p>“Not a blacksmith, whatever else you may be,” said the +postillion, laughing.</p> +<p>“Then how do you account for my making those shoes?”</p> +<p>“By your not being a blacksmith,” said the postillion; +“no blacksmith would have made shoes in that manner. Besides, +what did you mean just now by saying you had finished these shoes to-day? +a real blacksmith would have flung off half-a-dozen sets of donkey shoes +in one <!-- page 191--><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>morning, +but you, I will be sworn, have been hammering at these for days, and +they do you credit, but why? because you are no blacksmith; no, friend, +your shoes may do for this young gentlewoman’s animal, but I shouldn’t +like to have my horses shod by you, unless at a great pinch indeed.”</p> +<p>“Then,” said I, “for what do you take me?”</p> +<p>“Why, for some runaway young gentleman,” said the postillion. +“No offence, I hope?”</p> +<p>“None at all; no one is offended at being taken or mistaken +for a young gentleman, whether runaway or not; but from whence do you +suppose I have run away?”</p> +<p>“Why, from college,” said the man: “no offence?”</p> +<p>“None whatever; and what induced me to run away from college?”</p> +<p>“A love affair, I’ll be sworn,” said the postillion. +“You had become acquainted with this young gentle woman, so she +and you—”</p> +<p>“Mind how you get on, friend,” said Belle, in a deep +serious tone.</p> +<p>“Pray proceed,” said I; “I dare say you mean no +offence.”</p> +<p>“None in the world,” said the postillion; “all +I was going to say was that you agreed to run away together, you from +college and she from boarding-school. Well, there’s nothing +to be ashamed of in a matter like that, such things are done every day +by young folks in high life.”</p> +<p>“Are you offended?” said I to Belle.</p> +<p><!-- page 192--><a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 192</span>Belle +made no answer; but, placing her elbows on her knees, buried her face +in her hands.</p> +<p>“So we ran away together?” said I.</p> +<p>“Ay, ay,” said the postillion, “to Gretna Green, +though I can’t say that I drove ye, though I have driven many +a pair.”</p> +<p>“And from Gretna Green we came here?”</p> +<p>“I’ll be bound you did,” said the man, “till +you could arrange matters at home.”</p> +<p>“And the horse-shoes?” said I.</p> +<p>“The donkey-shoes you mean,” answered the postillion; +“why, I suppose you persuaded the blacksmith who married you to +give you, before you left, a few lessons in his trade?”</p> +<p>“And we intend to stay here till we have arranged matters at +home?”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay,” said the postillion, “till the old people +are pacified, and they send you letters directed to the next post town, +to be left till called for, beginning with, ‘Dear children,’ +and enclosing you each a cheque for one hundred pounds, when you will +leave this place, and go home in a coach like gentlefolks, to visit +your governors; I should like nothing better than to have the driving +of you: and then there will be a grand meeting of the two families, +and after a few reproaches, the old people will agree to do something +handsome for the poor thoughtless things; so you will have a genteel +house taken for you, and an annuity allowed you. You won’t +get much the first year, five hundred at the most, in order that the +old folks may let you feel <!-- page 193--><a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 193</span>that +they are not altogether satisfied with you, and that you are yet entirely +in their power; but the second, if you don’t get a cool thousand, +may I catch cold, especially should young madam here present a son and +heir for the old people to fondle, destined one day to become sole heir +of the two illustrious houses, and then all the grand folks in the neighbourhood, +who have, bless their prudent hearts! kept rather aloof from you till +then, for fear you should want anything from them—I say, all the +carriage people in the neighbourhood, when they see how swimmingly matters +are going on, will come in shoals to visit you.”</p> +<p>“Really,” said I, “you are getting on swimmingly.”</p> +<p>“Oh,” said the postillion, “I was not a gentleman’s +servant nine years without learning the ways of gentry, and being able +to know gentry when I see them.”</p> +<p>“And what do you say to all this?” I demanded of Belle.</p> +<p>“Stop a moment,” interposed the postillion, “I +have one more word to say, and when you are surrounded by your comforts, +keeping your nice little barouche and pair, your coachman and livery +servant, and visited by all the carriage people in the neighbourhood—to +say nothing of the time when you come to the family estates on the death +of the old people—I shouldn’t wonder if now and then you +look back with longing and regret to the days when you lived in the +damp dripping dingle, had no better equipage than a pony or donkey-cart, +and saw no better company than a tramper or gypsy, <!-- page 194--><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 194</span>except +once, when a poor postillion was glad to seat himself at your charcoal +fire.”</p> +<p>“Pray,” said I, “did you ever take lessons in elocution?”</p> +<p>“Not directly,” said the postillion, “but my old +master, who was in Parliament, did, and so did his son, who was intended +to be an orator. A great professor used to come and give them +lessons, and I used to stand and listen, by which means I picked up +a considerable quantity of what is called rhetoric. In what I +last said, I was aiming at what I have heard him frequently endeavouring +to teach my governors as a thing indispensably necessary in all oratory, +a graceful pere—pere—peregrination.”</p> +<p>“Peroration, perhaps?”</p> +<p>“Just so,” said the postillion; “and now I’m +sure I am not mistaken about you; you have taken lessons yourself, at +first hand, in the college vacations, and a promising pupil you were, +I make no doubt. Well, your friends will be all the happier to +get you back. Has your governor much borough interest?”</p> +<p>“I ask you once more,” said I, addressing myself to Belle, +“what you think of the history which this good man has made for +us?”</p> +<p>“What should I think of it,” said Belle, still keeping +her face buried in her hands, “but that it is mere nonsense?”</p> +<p>“Nonsense!” said the postillion.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said the girl, “and you know it.”</p> +<p>“May my leg always ache, if I do,” said the postillion, +<!-- page 195--><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 195</span>patting +his leg with his hand; “will you persuade me that this young man +has never been at college?”</p> +<p>“I have never been at college, but—”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay,” said the postillion; “but—”</p> +<p>“I have been to the best schools in Britain, to say nothing +of a celebrated one in Ireland.”</p> +<p>“Well, then, it comes to the same thing,” said the postillion; +“or perhaps you know more than if you had been at college—and +your governor?”</p> +<p>“My governor, as you call him,” said I, “is dead.”</p> +<p>“And his borough interest?”</p> +<p>“My father had no borough interest,” said I; “had +he possessed any, he would perhaps not have died as he did, honourably +poor.”</p> +<p>“No, no,” said the postillion; “if he had had borough +interest, he wouldn’t have been poor nor honourable, though perhaps +a right honourable. However, with your grand education and genteel +manners, you made all right at last by persuading this noble young gentlewoman +to run away from boarding-school with you.”</p> +<p>“I was never at a boarding-school,” said Belle, “unless +you call—”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay,” said the postillion, “boarding-school +is vulgar, I know: I beg your pardon, I ought to have called it academy, +or by some other much finer name—you were in something much greater +than a boarding-school.”</p> +<p>“There you are right,” said Belle, lifting up her head +and looking the postillion full in the face by the <!-- page 196--><a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 196</span>light +of the charcoal fire; “for I was bred in the workhouse.”</p> +<p>“Wooh!” said the postillion.</p> +<p>“It is true that I am of good—”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay,” said the postillion, “let us hear—”</p> +<p>“Of good blood,” continued Belle; “my name is Berners, +Isopel Berners, though my parents were unfortunate. Indeed, with +respect to blood, I believe I am of better blood than the young man.”</p> +<p>“There you are mistaken,” said I; “by my father’s +side I am of Cornish blood, and by my mother’s of brave French +Protestant extraction. Now, with respect to the blood of my father—and +to be descended well on the father’s side is the principal thing—it +is the best blood in the world, for the Cornish blood, as the proverb +says—”</p> +<p>“I don’t care what the proverb says,” said Belle; +“I say my blood is the best—my name is Berners, Isopel Berners—it +was my mother’s name, and is better, I am sure, than any you bear, +whatever that may be; and though you say that the descent on the father’s +side is the principal thing—and I know why you say so,” +she added with some excitement—“I say that descent on the +mother’s side is of most account, because the mother—”</p> +<p>“Just come from Gretna Green, and already quarrelling,” +said the postillion.</p> +<p>“We do not come from Gretna Green,” said Belle.</p> +<p>“Ah, I had forgot,” said the postillion, “none +but great people go to Gretna Green. Well, then, from <!-- page 197--><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 197</span>church, +and already quarrelling about family, just like two great people.”</p> +<p>“We have never been to church,” said Belle, “and, +to prevent any more guessing on your part, it will be as well for me +to tell you, friend, that I am nothing to the young man, and he, of +course, nothing to me. I am a poor travelling girl, born in a +workhouse: journeying on my occasions with certain companions, I came +to this hollow, where my company quarrelled with the young man, who +had settled down here, as he had a right to do, if he pleased; and not +been able to drive him out, they went away after quarrelling with me, +too, for not choosing to side with them; so I stayed here along with +the young man, there being room for us both, and the place being as +free to me as to him.”</p> +<p>“And, in order that you may be no longer puzzled with respect +to myself,” said I, “I will give you a brief outline of +my history. I am the son of honourable parents, who gave me a +first-rate education, as far as literature and languages went, with +which education I endeavoured, on the death of my father, to advance +myself to wealth and reputation in the big city; but failing in the +attempt, I conceived a disgust for the busy world, and determined to +retire from it. After wandering about for some time, and meeting +with various adventures, in one of which I contrived to obtain a pony, +cart, and certain tools, used by smiths and tinkers, I came to this +place, where I amused myself with making horse-shoes, or rather pony-shoes, +having <!-- page 198--><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 198</span>acquired +the art of wielding the hammer and tongs from a strange kind of smith—not +him of Gretna Green—whom I knew in my childhood. And here +I lived, doing harm to no one, quite lonely and solitary, till one fine +morning the premises were visited by this young gentlewoman and her +companions. She did herself anything but justice when she said +that her companions quarrelled with her because she would not side with +them against me; they quarrelled with her, because she came most heroically +to my assistance as I was on the point of being murdered; and she forgot +to tell you, that after they had abandoned her she stood by me in the +dark hour, comforting and cheering me, when unspeakable dread, to which +I am occasionally subject, took possession of my mind. She says +she is nothing to me, even as I am nothing to her. I am of course +nothing to her, but she is mistaken in thinking she is nothing to me. +I entertain the highest regard and admiration for her, being convinced +that I might search the whole world in vain for a nature more heroic +and devoted.”</p> +<p>“And for my part,” said Belle, with a sob, “a more +quiet, agreeable partner in a place like this I would not wish to have; +it is true he has strange ways, and frequently puts words into my mouth +very difficult to utter; but—but—” and here she buried +her face once more in her hands.</p> +<p>“Well,” said the postillion, “I have been mistaken +about you; that is, not altogether, but in part. You are not rich +folks, it seems, but you are not common <!-- page 199--><a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>people, +and that I could have sworn. What I call a shame is, that some +people I have known are not in your place and you in theirs,—you +with their estates and borough interest, they in this dingle with these +carts and animals; but there is no help for these things. Were +I the great Mumbo Jumbo above, I would endeavour to manage matters better; +but being a simple postillion, glad to earn three shillings a day, I +can’t be expected to do much . . . .”</p> +<p>[Here the postillion tells his story. After they have heard +it, Lavengro, Isopel, and the narrator roll themselves in their several +blankets and bid one another “Good night.”]</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII.—THE MAKING OF THE LINCH-PIN—THE SOUND +SLEEPER—BREAKFAST—THE POSTILLION’S DEPARTURE.</h2> +<p>I awoke at the first break of day, and, leaving the postillion fast +asleep, stepped out of the tent. The dingle was dank and dripping. +I lighted a fire of coals, and got my forge in readiness. I then +ascended to the field, where the chaise was standing as we had left +it on the previous evening. After looking at the cloud-stone near +it, now cold, and split into three pieces, I set about prying narrowly +into the condition of the wheel and axle-tree—the latter had sustained +no damage of any consequence, and the wheel, as far as I was able to +judge, was sound, being only slightly injured in the box. The +only thing requisite to set the <!-- page 200--><a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 200</span>chaise +in a travelling condition appeared to be a linch-pin, which I determined +to make. Going to the companion wheel, I took out the linch-pin, +which I carried down with me to the dingle, to serve me as a model.</p> +<p>I found Belle by this time dressed, and seated near the forge: with +a slight nod to her like that which a person gives who happens to see +an acquaintance when his mind is occupied with important business, I +forthwith set about my work. Selecting a piece of iron which I +thought would serve my purpose, I placed it in the fire, and plying +the bellows in a furious manner, soon made it hot; then seizing it with +the tongs, I laid it on my anvil, and began to beat it with my hammer, +according to the rules of my art. The dingle resounded with my +strokes. Belle sat still, and occasionally smiled, but suddenly +started up and retreated towards her encampment, on a spark which I +purposely sent in her direction alighting on her knee. I found +the making of a linch-pin no easy matter; it was, however, less difficult +than the fabrication of a pony-shoe; my work, indeed, was much facilitated +by my having another pin to look at. In about three-quarters of +an hour I had succeeded tolerably well, and had produced a linch-pin +which I thought would serve. During all this time, notwithstanding +the noise which I was making, the postillion never showed his face. +His non-appearance at first alarmed me: I was afraid he might be dead, +but, on looking into the tent, I found him still buried in the soundest +sleep. “He must surely be descended from one of the seven +sleepers,” said I, <!-- page 201--><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 201</span>as +I turned away and resumed my work. My work finished, I took a +little oil, leather, and sand, and polished the pin as well as I could; +then, summoning Belle, we both went to the chaise, where, with her assistance, +I put on the wheel. The linch-pin which I had made fitted its +place very well, and having replaced the other, I gazed at the chaise +for some time with my heart full of that satisfaction which results +from the consciousness of having achieved a great action; then, after +looking at Belle in the hope of obtaining a compliment from her lips, +which did not come, I returned to the dingle, without saying a word, +followed by her. Belle set about making preparations for breakfast; +and I, taking the kettle, went and filled it at the spring. Having +hung it over the fire, I went to the tent in which the postillion was +still sleeping, and called upon him to arise. He awoke with a +start, and stared around him at first with the utmost surprise, not +unmixed, I could observe, with a certain degree of fear. At last, +looking in my face, he appeared to recollect himself. “I +had quite forgot,” said he, as he got up, “where I was, +and all that happened yesterday. However, I remember now the whole +affair, thunderstorm, thunder-bolt, frightened horses, and all your +kindness. Come, I must see after my coach and horses; I hope we +shall be able to repair the damage.” “The damage is +already quite repaired,” said I, “as you will see, if you +come to the field above.” “You don’t say so,” +said the postillion, coming out of the tent; “well, I am mightily +beholden to you. Good <!-- page 202--><a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 202</span>morning, +young gentlewoman,” said he, addressing Belle, who, having finished +her preparations, was seated near the fire. “Good morning, +young man,” said Belle: “I suppose you would be glad of +some breakfast; however, you must wait a little, the kettle does not +boil.” “Come and look at your chaise,” said +I; “but tell me how it happened that the noise which I have been +making did not awake you; for three-quarters of an hour at least I was +hammering close at your ear.” “I heard you all the +time,” said the postillion, “but your hammering made me +sleep all the sounder; I am used to hear hammering in my morning sleep. +There’s a forge close by the room where I sleep when I’m +at home, at my inn; for we have all kinds of conveniences at my inn—forge, +carpenter’s shop, and wheelwright’s,—so that when +I heard you hammering, I thought, no doubt, that it was the old noise, +and that I was comfortable in my bed at my own inn.” We +now ascended to the field, where I showed the postillion his chaise. +He looked at the pin attentively, rubbed his hands, and gave a loud +laugh. “Is it not well done?” said I. “It +will do till I get home,” he replied. “And that is +all you have to say?” I demanded. “And that’s +a good deal,” said he, “considering who made it. But +don’t be offended,” he added, “I shall prize it all +the more for its being made by a gentleman, and no blacksmith; and so +will my governor, when I show it to him. I shan’t let it +remain where it is, but will keep it, as a remembrance of you, as long +as I live.” He then again rubbed his <!-- page 203--><a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 203</span>hands +with great glee, and said, “I will now go and see after my horses, +and then to breakfast, partner, if you please.” Suddenly, +however, looking at his hands, he said, “Before sitting down to +breakfast, I am in the habit of washing my hands and face: I suppose +you could not furnish me with a little soap and water.” +“As much water as you please,” said I, “but if you +want soap, I must go and trouble the young gentlewoman for some.” +“By no means,” said the postillion, “water will do +at a pinch.” “Follow me,” said I; and leading +him to the pond of the frogs and newts, I said, “This is my ewer; +you are welcome to part of it—the water is so soft that it is +scarcely necessary to add soap to it;” then lying down on the +bank, I plunged my head into the water, then scrubbed my hands and face, +and afterwards wiped them with some long grass which grew on the margin +of the pond. “Bravo,” said the postillion, “I +see you know how to make a shift;” he then followed my example, +declared he never felt more refreshed in his life, and, giving a bound, +said, “he would go and look after his horses.”</p> +<p>We then went to look after the horses, which we found not much the +worse for having spent the night in the open air. My companion +again inserted their heads in the corn-bags, and, leaving the animals +to discuss their corn, returned with me to the dingle, where we found +the kettle boiling. We sat down, and Belle made tea and did the +honours of the meal. The postillion was in high spirits, ate heartily, +and, to Belle’s evident satisfaction, declared that he had never +drank better <!-- page 204--><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 204</span>tea +in his life, or indeed any half so good. Breakfast over, he said +that he must now go and harness his horses, as it was high time for +him to return to his inn. Belle gave him her hand and wished him +farewell: the postillion shook her hand warmly, and was advancing close +up to her—for what purpose I cannot say—whereupon Belle, +withdrawing her hand, drew herself up with an air which caused the postillion +to retreat a step or two with an exceedingly sheepish look. Recovering +himself, however, he made a low bow, and proceeded up the path. +I attended him, and helped to harness his horses and put them to the +vehicle; he then shook me by the hand, and taking the reins and whip +mounted to his seat; ere he drove away he thus addressed me: “If +ever I forget your kindness and that of the young woman below, dash +my buttons. If ever either of you should enter my inn you may +depend upon a warm welcome, the best that can be set before you, and +no expense to either, for I will give both of you the best of characters +to the governor, who is the very best fellow upon all the road. +As for your linch-pin, I trust it will serve till I get home, when I +will take it out and keep it in remembrance of you all the days of my +life;” then giving the horses a jerk with his reins, he cracked +his whip and drove off.</p> +<p>I returned to the dingle, Belle had removed the breakfast things, +and was busy in her own encampment: nothing occurred, worthy of being +related, for two hours, at the end of which time Belle departed on a +short expedition, and I again found myself alone in the dingle.</p> +<h2><!-- page 205--><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 205</span>CHAPTER +XVIII.—THE MAN IN BLACK—THE EMPEROR OF GERMANY—NEPOTISM—DONNA +OLYMPIA—OMNIPOTENCE—CAMILLO ASTALLI—THE FIVE PROPOSITIONS.</h2> +<p>In the evening I received another visit from the man in black. +I had been taking a stroll in the neighbourhood, and was sitting in +the dingle in rather a listless manner, scarcely knowing how to employ +myself; his coming, therefore, was by no means disagreeable to me. +I produced the hollands and glass from my tent, where Isopel Berners +had requested me to deposit them, and also some lump sugar, then taking +the gotch I fetched water from the spring, and, sitting down, begged +the man in black to help himself; he was not slow in complying with +my desire, and prepared for himself a glass of hollands and water with +a lump of sugar in it. After he had taken two or three sips with +evident satisfaction, I, remembering his chuckling exclamation of “Go +to Rome for money,” when he last left the dingle, took the liberty, +after a little conversation, of reminding him of it, whereupon, with +a he! he! he! he replied, “Your idea was not quite so original +as I supposed. After leaving you the other night I remembered +having read of an emperor of Germany who conceived the idea of applying +to Rome for money, and actually put it into practice.</p> +<p>“Urban the Eighth then occupied the papal chair, of the family +of the Barberini, nicknamed the Mosche, <!-- page 206--><a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 206</span>or +Flies, from the circumstance of bees being their armorial bearing. +The Emperor having exhausted all his money in endeavouring to defend +the church against Gustavus Adolphus, the great King of Sweden, who +was bent on its destruction, applied in his necessity to the Pope for +a loan of money. The Pope, however, and his relations, whose cellars +were at that time full of the money of the church, which they had been +plundering for years, refused to lend him a scudo; whereupon a pasquinade +picture was stuck up at Rome, representing the church lying on a bed, +gashed with dreadful wounds, and beset all over with flies, which were +sucking her, whilst the Emperor of Germany was kneeling before her with +a miserable face, requesting a little money towards carrying on the +war against the heretics, to which the poor church was made to say: +‘How can I assist you, O my champion, do you not see that the +flies have sucked me to the very bones?’ Which story,” +said he, “shows that the idea of going to Rome for money was not +quite so original as I imagined the other night, though utterly preposterous.</p> +<p>“This affair,” said he, “occurred in what were +called the days of nepotism. Certain popes, who wished to make +themselves in some degree independent of the cardinals, surrounded themselves +with their nephews, and the rest of their family, who sucked the church +and Christendom as much as they could, none doing so more effectually +than the relations of Urban the Eighth, at whose death, according to +the book called the “Nipotismo di Roma,” there were in the +Barberini family <!-- page 207--><a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 207</span>two +hundred and twenty-seven governments, abbeys, and high dignities; and +so much hard cash in their possession that threescore and ten mules +were scarcely sufficient to convey the plunder of one of them to Palestrina.” +He added, however, that it was probable that Christendom fared better +whilst the popes were thus independent, as it was less sucked, whereas +before and after that period, it was sucked by hundreds instead of tens, +by the cardinals and all their relations, instead of by the pope and +his nephews only.</p> +<p>Then, after drinking rather copiously of his hollands, he said that +it was certainly no bad idea of the popes to surround themselves with +nephews, on whom they bestowed great church dignities, as by so doing +they were tolerably safe from poison, whereas a pope, if abandoned to +the cardinals, might at any time be made away with by them, provided +they thought that he lived too long, or that he seemed disposed to do +anything which they disliked; adding, that Ganganelli would never have +been poisoned provided he had had nephews about him to take care of +his life, and to see that nothing unholy was put into his food, or a +bustling stirring brother’s wife like Donna Olympia. He +then with a he! he! he! asked me if I had ever read the book called +the “Nipotismo di Roma”; and on my replying in the negative, +he told me that it was a very curious and entertaining book, which he +occasionally looked at in an idle hour, and proceeded to relate to me +anecdotes out of the “Nipotismo di Roma” about the successor +of Urban, Innocent the Tenth, and Donna <!-- page 208--><a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span>Olympia, +showing how fond he was of her, and how she cooked his food, and kept +the cardinals away from it, and how she and her creatures plundered +Christendom, with the sanction of the Pope until Christendom, becoming +enraged, insisted that he should put her away, which he did for a time, +putting a nephew—one Camillo Astalli—in her place, in which, +however, he did not continue long for the Pope, conceiving a pique against +him, banished him from his sight, and recalled Donna Olympia, who took +care of his food, and plundered Christendom until Pope Innocent died.</p> +<p>I said that I only wondered that between pope and cardinals the whole +system of Rome had not long fallen to the ground, and was told in reply, +that its not having fallen was the strongest proof of its vital power, +and the absolute necessity for the existence of the system. That +the system, notwithstanding its occasional disorders, went on. +Popes and cardinals might prey upon its bowels, and sell its interests, +but the system survived. The cutting off of this or that member +was not able to cause Rome any vital loss; for, as soon as she lost +a member, the loss was supplied by her own inherent vitality; though +her popes had been poisoned by cardinals, and her cardinals by popes; +and though priests occasionally poisoned popes, cardinals, and each +other, after all that had been, and might be, she had still, and would +ever have, her priests, cardinals, and pope.</p> +<p>Finding the man in black so communicative and reasonable, I determined +to make the best of my opportunity, and learn from him all I could with +respect <!-- page 209--><a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 209</span>to +the papal system, and told him that he would particularly oblige me +by telling me who the Pope of Rome was; and received for answer, that +he was an old man elected by a majority of cardinals to the papal chair; +who, immediately after his election, became omnipotent and equal to +God on earth. On my begging him not to talk such nonsense, and +asking him how a person could be omnipotent who could not always preserve +himself from poison, even when fenced round by nephews, or protected +by a bustling woman, he, after taking a long sip of hollands and water, +told me that I must not expect too much from omnipotence; for example, +that as it would be unreasonable to expect that One above could annihilate +the past—for instance, the Seven Years’ War, or the French +Revolution—though any one who believed in Him would acknowledge +Him to be omnipotent, so would it be unreasonable for the faithful to +expect that the Pope could always guard himself from poison. Then, +after looking at me for a moment steadfastly, and taking another sip, +he told me that popes had frequently done impossibilities; for example, +Innocent the Tenth had created a nephew: for, not liking particularly +any of his real nephews, he had created the said Camillo Astalli his +nephew; asking me, with a he! he! “What but omnipotence +could make a young man nephew to a person to whom he was not in the +slightest degree related?” On my observing that of course +no one believed that the young fellow was really the pope’s nephew, +though the pope might have adopted him as such, the man <!-- page 210--><a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 210</span>in +black replied, “that the reality of the nephewship of Camillo +Astalli had hitherto never become a point of faith; let, however, the +present pope, or any other pope, proclaim that it is necessary to believe +in the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli, and see whether +the faithful would not believe in it. Who can doubt that,” +he added, “seeing that they believe in the reality of the five +propositions of Jansenius? The Jesuits, wishing to ruin the Jansenists, +induced a pope to declare that such and such damnable opinions, which +they called five propositions, were to be found in a book written by +Jansen, though in reality no such propositions were to be found there; +whereupon the existence of these propositions became forthwith a point +of faith to the faithful. Do you then think,” he demanded, +“that there is one of the faithful who would not swallow, if called +upon, the nephewship of Camillo Astalli as easily as the five propositions +of Jansenius?” “Surely, then,” said I, “the +faithful must be a pretty pack of simpletons!” Whereupon +the man in black exclaimed, “What! a Protestant, and an infringer +of the rights of faith! Here’s a fellow, who would feel +himself insulted if any one were to ask him how he could believe in +the miraculous conception, calling people simpletons who swallow the +five propositions of Jansenius, and are disposed, if called upon, to +swallow the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli.”</p> +<p>I was about to speak, when I was interrupted by the arrival of Belle. +After unharnessing her donkey, and adjusting her person a little, she +came and sat down <!-- page 211--><a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 211</span>by +us. In the meantime I had helped my companion to some more hollands +and water, and had plunged with him into yet deeper discourse.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX.—NECESSITY OF RELIGION—THE GREAT INDIAN +ONE—IMAGE WORSHIP—SHAKESPEARE—THE PAT ANSWER—KRISHNA—AMEN.</h2> +<p>Having told the man in black that I should like to know all the truth +with regard to the Pope and his system, he assured me he should be delighted +to give me all the information in his power; that he had come to the +dingle, not so much for the sake of the good cheer which I was in the +habit of giving him, as in the hope of inducing me to enlist under the +banners of Rome, and to fight in her cause; and that he had no doubt +that, by speaking out frankly to me, he ran the best chance of winning +me over.</p> +<p>He then proceeded to tell me that the experience of countless ages +had proved the necessity of religion; the necessity, he would admit, +was only for simpletons; but as nine-tenths of the dwellers upon this +earth were simpletons, it would never do for sensible people to run +counter to their folly, but, on the contrary, it was the wisest course +to encourage them in it, always provided that, by so doing, sensible +people could derive advantage; that the truly sensible people of this +world were the priests, who, without caring a straw for <!-- page 212--><a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 212</span>religion +for its own sake, made use of it as a cord by which to draw the simpletons +after them; that there were many religions in this world, all of which +had been turned to excellent account by the priesthood; but that the +one the best adapted for the purposes of priestcraft was the popish, +which, he said, was the oldest in the world and the best calculated +to endure. On my inquiring what he meant by saying the popish +religion was the oldest in the world, whereas there could be no doubt +that the Greek and Roman religion had existed long before it, to say +nothing of the old Indian religion still in existence and vigour; he +said, with a nod, after taking a sip at his glass, that, between me +and him, the popish religion, that of Greece and Rome, and the old Indian +system were, in reality, one and the same.</p> +<p>“You told me that you intended to be frank,” said I; +“but, however frank you may be, I think you are rather wild.”</p> +<p>“We priests of Rome,” said the man in black, “even +those amongst us who do not go much abroad, know a great deal about +church matters, of which you heretics have very little idea. Those +of our brethren of the Propaganda, on their return home from distant +missions, not unfrequently tell us very strange things relating to our +dear mother; for example, our first missionaries to the East were not +slow in discovering and telling to their brethren that our religion +and the great Indian one were identical, no more difference between +them than between Ram and Rome. Priests, <!-- page 213--><a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 213</span>convents, +beads, prayers, processions, fastings, penances, all the same, not forgetting +anchorites and vermin, he! he! The pope they found under the title +of the grand lama, a sucking child surrounded by an immense number of +priests. Our good brethren, some two hundred years ago, had a +hearty laugh, which their successors have often re-echoed; they said +that helpless suckling and its priests put them so much in mind of their +own old man, surrounded by his cardinals, he! he! Old age is second +childhood.”</p> +<p>“Did they find Christ?” said I.</p> +<p>“They found him too,” said the man in black, “that +is, they saw his image; he is considered in India as a pure kind of +being, and on that account, perhaps, is kept there rather in the background, +even as he is here.”</p> +<p>“All this is very mysterious to me,” said I.</p> +<p>“Very likely,” said the man in black; “but of this +I am tolerably sure, and so are most of those of Rome, that modern Rome +had its religion from ancient Rome, which had its religion from the +East.”</p> +<p>“But how?” I demanded.</p> +<p>“It was brought about, I believe, by the wanderings of nations,” +said the man in black. “A brother of the Propaganda, a very +learned man, once told me—I do not mean Mezzofante, who has not +five ideas—this brother once told me that all we of the Old World, +from Calcutta to Dublin, are of the same stock, and were originally +of the same language, and—”</p> +<p>“All of one religion,” I put in.</p> +<p><!-- page 214--><a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 214</span>“All +of one religion,” said the mad in black; “and now follow +different modifications of the same religion.”</p> +<p>“We Christians are not image-worshippers,” said I.</p> +<p>“You heretics are not, you mean,” said the man in black; +“but you will be put down, just as you have always been, though +others may rise up after you; the true religion is image-worship; people +may strive against it, but they will only work themselves to an oil; +how did it fare with that Greek Emperor, the Iconoclast, what was his +name, Leon the Isaurian? Did not his image-breaking cost him Italy, +the fairest province of his empire, and did not ten fresh images start +up at home for every one which he demolished? Oh! you little know +the craving which the soul sometimes feels after a good bodily image.”</p> +<p>“I have indeed no conception of it,” said I; “I +have an abhorrence of idolatry—the idea of bowing before a graven +figure.”</p> +<p>“The idea, indeed,” said Belle, who had now joined us.</p> +<p>“Did you never bow before that of Shakespeare?” said +the man in black, addressing himself to me, after a low bow to Belle.</p> +<p>“I don’t remember that I ever did,” said I, “but +even suppose I did?”</p> +<p>“Suppose you did,” said the man in black; “shame +on you, Mr. Hater of Idolatry; why, the very supposition brings you +to the ground; you must make figures of Shakespeare, must you? then +why not of St. Antonio, or Ignacio, or of a greater personage <!-- page 215--><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 215</span>still? +I know what you are going to say,” he cried, interrupting me as +I was about to speak. “You don’t make his image in +order to pay it divine honours, but only to look at it, and think of +Shakespeare; but this looking at a thing in order to think of a person +is the very basis of idolatry. Shakespeare’s works are not +sufficient for you; no more are the Bible or the legend of Saint Antony +or Saint Ignacio for us, that is for those of us who believe in them; +I tell you, Zingaro, that no religion can exist long which rejects a +good bodily image.”</p> +<p>“Do you think,” said I, “that Shakespeare’s +works would not exist without his image?”</p> +<p>“I believe,” said the man in black, “that Shakespeare’s +image is looked at more than his works, and will be looked at, and perhaps +adored, when they are forgotten. I am surprised that they have +not been forgotten long ago; I am no admirer of them.”</p> +<p>“But I can’t imagine,” said I, “how you will +put aside the authority of Moses. If Moses strove against image-worship, +should not his doing so be conclusive as to the impropriety of the practice; +what higher authority can you have than that of Moses?”</p> +<p>“The practice of the great majority of the human race,” +said the man in black, “and the recurrence to image-worship, where +image-worship has been abolished. Do you know that Moses is considered +by the church as no better than a heretic, and though, for particular +reasons, it has been obliged to adopt his writings, the adoption was +merely a sham one, <!-- page 216--><a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 216</span>as +it never paid the slightest attention to them? No, no, the church +was never led by Moses, nor by one mightier than he, whose doctrine +it has equally nullified—I allude to Krishna in his second avatar; +the church, it is true, governs in his name, but not unfrequently gives +him the lie, if he happens to have said anything which it dislikes. +Did you never hear the reply which Padre Paolo Segani made to the French +Protestant Jean Anthoine Guerin, who had asked him whether it was easier +for Christ to have been mistaken in his Gospel, than for the Pope to +be mistaken in his decrees?”</p> +<p>“I never heard their names before,” said I.</p> +<p>“The answer was pat,” said the man in black, “though +he who made it was confessedly the most ignorant fellow of the very +ignorant order to which he belonged, the Augustine. ‘Christ +might err as a man,’ said he, ‘but the Pope can never err, +being God.’ The whole story is related in the Nipotismo.”</p> +<p>“I wonder you should ever have troubled yourselves with Christ +at all,” said I.</p> +<p>“What was to be done?” said the man in black; “the +power of that name suddenly came over Europe, like the power of a mighty +wind; it was said to have come from Judæa, and from Judæa +it probably came when it first began to agitate minds in these parts; +but it seems to have been known in the remote East, more or less, for +thousands of years previously. It filled people’s minds +with madness; it was followed by books which were never much regarded, +as they contained little of insanity; but the name! what fury <!-- page 217--><a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 217</span>that +breathed into people! the books were about peace and gentleness, but +the name was the most horrible of war-cries—those who wished to +uphold old names at first strove to oppose it, but their efforts were +feeble, and they had no good war-cry; what was Mars as a war-cry compared +with the name of. . . .? It was said that they persecuted terribly, +but who said so? The Christians. The Christians could have +given them a lesson in the art of persecution, and eventually did so. +None but Christians have ever been good persecutors; well, the old religion +succumbed, Christianity prevailed, for the ferocious is sure to prevail +over the gentle.”</p> +<p>“I thought,” said I, “you stated a little time +ago that the Popish religion and the ancient Roman are the same?”</p> +<p>“In every point but that name, that Krishna and the fury and +love of persecution which it inspired,” said the man in black. +“A hot blast came from the East, sounding Krishna; it absolutely +maddened people’s minds, and the people would call themselves +his children; we will not belong to Jupiter any longer, we will belong +to Krishna; and they did belong to Krishna, that is in name, but in +nothing else; for who ever cared for Krishna in the Christian world, +or who ever regarded the words attributed to Him, or put them in practice?”</p> +<p>“Why, we Protestants regard His words, and endeavour to practise +what they enjoin as much as possible.”</p> +<p>“But you reject his image,” said the man in black; <!-- page 218--><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 218</span>“better +reject his words than his image: no religion can exist long which rejects +a good bodily image. Why, the very negro barbarians of High Barbary +could give you a lesson on that point; they have their fetish images, +to which they look for help in their afflictions; they have likewise +a high priest, whom they call—”</p> +<p>“Mumbo Jumbo,” said I; “I know all about him already.”</p> +<p>“How came you to know anything about him?” said the man +in black, with a look of some surprise.</p> +<p>“Some of us poor Protestant tinkers,” said I, “though +we live in dingles, as also acquainted with a thing or two.”</p> +<p>“I really believe you are,” said the man in black, staring +at me; “but, in connection with this Mumbo Jumbo, I could relate +to you a comical story about a fellow, an English servant, I once met +at Rome.” <a name="citation218"></a><a href="#footnote218">{218}</a></p> +<p>“It would be quite unnecessary,” said I; “I would +much sooner hear you talk about Krishna, his words and image.”</p> +<p>“Spoken like a true heretic,” said the man in black; +“one of the faithful would have placed his image before his words; +for what are all the words in the world compared with a good bodily +image?”</p> +<p>“I believe you occasionally quote his words?” said I.</p> +<p>“He! he!” said the man in black; “occasionally.”</p> +<p>“For example,” said I, “upon this rock I will found +my church.”</p> +<p><!-- page 219--><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 219</span>“He! +he!” said the man in black; “you must really become one +of us.”</p> +<p>“Yet you must have had some difficulty in getting the rock +to Rome?”</p> +<p>“None whatever,” said the man in black; “faith +can remove mountains, to say nothing of rocks—ho! ho!”</p> +<p>“But I cannot imagine,” said I, “what advantage +you could derive from perverting those words of Scripture in which the +Saviour talks about eating his body.”</p> +<p>“I do not know, indeed, why we troubled our heads about the +matter at all,” said the man in black; “but when you talk +about perverting the meaning of the text, you speak ignorantly, Mr. +Tinker; when he whom you call the Saviour gave his followers the sop, +and bade them eat it, telling them it was his body, he delicately alluded +to what it was incumbent upon them to do after his death, namely, to +eat his body.”</p> +<p>“You do not mean to say that he intended they should actually +eat his body?”</p> +<p>“Then you suppose ignorantly,” said the man in black; +“eating the bodies of the dead was a heathenish custom, practised +by the heirs and legatees of people who left property; and this custom +is alluded to in the text.”</p> +<p>“But what has the New Testament to do with heathen customs,” +said I, “except to destroy them?”</p> +<p>“More than you suppose,” said the man in black. +“We priests of Rome, who have long lived at Rome, know much better +what the New Testament is made of than the heretics and their theologians, +not forgetting their Tinkers; though I confess some of the latter have +<!-- page 220--><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 220</span>occasionally +surprised us—for example, Bunyan. The New Testament is crowded +with allusions to heathen customs, and with words connected with pagan +sorcery. Now, with respect to words, I would fain have you, who +pretend to be a philologist, tell me the meaning of Amen?”</p> +<p>I made no answer.</p> +<p>“We, of Rome,” said the man in black, “know two +or three things of which the heretics are quite ignorant; for example, +there are those amongst us—those, too, who do not pretend to be +philologists—who know what amen is, and, moreover, how we got +it. We got it from our ancestors, the priests of ancient Rome; +and they got the word from their ancestors of the East, the priests +of Buddh and Brahma.”</p> +<p>“And what is the meaning of the word?” I demanded.</p> +<p>“Amen,” said the man in black, “is a modification +of the old Hindoo formula, Omani batsikhom, by the almost ceaseless +repetition of which the Indians hope to be received finally to the rest +or state of forgetfulness of Buddh or Brahma; a foolish practice you +will say, but are you heretics much wiser, who are continually sticking +amen to the end of your prayers, little knowing when you do so, that +you are consigning yourselves to the repose of Buddh? Oh, what +hearty laughs our missionaries have had when comparing the eternally +sounding Eastern gibberish of Omani batsikhom, and the Ave Maria and +Amen Jesus of our own idiotical devotees.”</p> +<p>“I have nothing to say about the Ave Marias and <!-- page 221--><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 221</span>Amens +of your superstitious devotees,” said I; “I daresay that +they use them nonsensically enough, but in putting Amen to the end of +a prayer, we merely intend to express, ‘So let it be.’”</p> +<p>“It means nothing of the kind,” said the man in black; +“and the Hindoos might just as well put your national oath at +the end of their prayers, as perhaps they will after a great many thousand +years, when English is forgotten, and only a few words of it remembered +by dim tradition without being understood. How strange if, after +the lapse of four thousand years, the Hindoos should damn themselves +to the blindness so dear to their present masters, even as their masters +at present consign themselves to the forgetfulness so dear to the Hindoos; +but my glass has been empty for a considerable time; perhaps Bellissima +Biondina,” said he, addressing Belle, “you will deign to +replenish it?”</p> +<p>“I shall do no such thing,” said Belle; “you have +drank quite enough, and talked more than enough, and to tell you the +truth I wish you would leave us alone.”</p> +<p>“Shame on you, Belle,” said I, “consider the obligations +of hospitality.”</p> +<p>“I am sick of that word,” said Belle, “you are +so frequently misusing it; were this place not Mumpers’ Dingle, +and consequently as free to the fellow as ourselves, I would lead him +out of it.”</p> +<p>“Pray be quiet, Belle,” said I. “You had +better help yourself,” said I, addressing myself to the man in +black, “the lady is angry with you.”</p> +<p>“I am sorry for it,” said the man in black; “if +she <!-- page 222--><a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 222</span>is +angry with me, I am not so with her, and shall always be proud to wait +upon her; in the meantime I will wait upon myself.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XX.—THE PROPOSAL—THE SCOTCH NOVEL—LATITUDE—MIRACLES—PESTILENT +HERETICS—OLD FRASER—WONDERFUL TEXT—NO ARMENIAN.</h2> +<p>The man in black having helped himself to some more of his favourite +beverage, and tasted it, I thus addressed him: “The evening is +getting rather advanced, and I can see that this lady,” pointing +to Belle, “is anxious for her tea, which she prefers to take cosily +and comfortably with me in the dingle. The place, it is true, +is as free to you as to ourselves, nevertheless, as we are located here +by necessity, whilst you merely come as a visitor, I must take the liberty +of telling you that we shall be glad to be alone, as soon as you have +said what you have to say, and have finished the glass of refreshment +at present in your hand. I think you said some time ago that one +of your motives for coming hither was to induce me to enlist under the +banner of Rome. I wish to know whether that was really the case?”</p> +<p>“Decidedly so,” said the man in black; “I come +here principally in the hope of enlisting you in our regiment, in which +I have no doubt you could do us excellent service.”</p> +<p>“Would you enlist my companion as well?” I demanded.</p> +<p><!-- page 223--><a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 223</span>“We +should be only too proud to have her among us, whether she comes with +you or alone,” said the man in black, with a polite bow to Belle.</p> +<p>“Before we give you an answer,” I replied, “I would +fain know more about you; perhaps you will declare your name?”</p> +<p>“That I will never do,” said the man in black; “no +one in England knows it but myself, and I will not declare it, even +in a dingle; as for the rest, <i>Sono un Prete Cattolica Appostolico</i>—that +is all that many a one of us can say for himself, and it assuredly means +a great deal.”</p> +<p>“We will now proceed to business,” said I. “You +must be aware that we English are generally considered a self-interested +people.”</p> +<p>“And with considerable justice,” said the man in black, +drinking. “Well, you are a person of acute perception, and +I will presently make it evident to you that it would be to your interest +to join with us. You are at present, evidently, in very needy +circumstances, and are lost, not only to yourself, but the world; but +should you enlist with us, I could find you an occupation not only agreeable, +but one in which your talents would have free scope. I would introduce +you in the various grand houses here in England, to which I have myself +admission, as a surprising young gentleman of infinite learning, who +by dint of study has discovered that the Roman is the only true faith. +I tell you confidently that our popish females would make a saint, nay +a God of you; they are fools enough for anything. There <!-- page 224--><a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 224</span>is +one person in particular with whom I should wish to make you acquainted, +in the hope that you would be able to help me to perform good service +to the holy see. He is a gouty old fellow, of some learning, residing +in an old hall, near the great western sea-port, and is one of the very +few amongst the English Catholics possessing a grain of sense. +I think you could help us to govern him, for he is not unfrequently +disposed to be restive, asks us strange questions—occasionally +threatens us with his crutch; and behaves so that we are often afraid +that we shall lose him, or, rather, his property, which he has bequeathed +to us, and which is enormous. I am sure that you could help us +to deal with him; sometimes with your humour, sometimes with your learning, +and perhaps occasionally with your fists.</p> +<p>“And in what manner would you provide for my companion?” +said I.</p> +<p>“We would place her at once,” said the man in black, +“in the house of two highly respectable Catholic ladies in this +neighbourhood, where she would be treated with every care and consideration +till her conversion should be accomplished in a regular manner; we would +then remove her to a female monastic establishment, where, after undergoing +a year’s probation, during which time she would be instructed +in every elegant accomplishment, she should take the veil. Her +advancement would speedily follow, for, with such a face and figure, +she would make a capital lady abbess, especially in Italy, to which +country she would probably be sent; <!-- page 225--><a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 225</span>ladies +of her hair and complexion—to say nothing of her height—being +a curiosity in the south. With a little care and management she +could soon obtain a vast reputation for sanctity; and who knows but +after her death she might become a glorified saint—he! he! +Sister Maria Theresa, for that is the name I propose you should bear. +Holy Mother Maria Theresa—glorified and celestial saint, I have +the honour of drinking to your health,” and the man in black drank.</p> +<p>“Well, Belle,” said I, “what have you to say to +the gentleman’s proposal?”</p> +<p>“That if he goes on in this way I will break his glass against +his mouth.”</p> +<p>“You have heard the lady’s answer,” said I.</p> +<p>“I have,” said the man in black, “and shall not +press the matter. I can’t help, however, repeating that +she would make a capital lady abbess; she would keep the nuns in order, +I warrant her; no easy matter! Break the glass against my mouth—he! +he! How she would send the holy utensils flying at the nuns’ +heads occasionally, and just the person to wring the nose of Satan should +he venture to appear one night in her cell in the shape of a handsome +black man. No offence, madam, no offence, pray retain your seat,” +said he, observing that Belle had started up; “I mean no offence. +Well, if you will not consent to be an abbess, perhaps you will consent +to follow this young Zingaro, and to co-operate with him and us. +I am a priest, madam, and can join you both in an instant, <i>connubio +stabili</i>, as I suppose the knot has not been tied already.”</p> +<p><!-- page 226--><a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 226</span>“Hold +your mumping gibberish,” said Belle, “and leave the dingle +this moment, for though ’tis free to every one, you have no right +to insult me in it.”</p> +<p>“Pray be pacified,” said I to Belle, getting up, and +placing myself between her and the man in black, “he will presently +leave, take my word for it—there, sit down again,” said +I, as I led her to her seat; then, resuming my own, I said to the man +in black: “I advise you to leave the dingle as soon as possible.”</p> +<p>“I should wish to have your answer to my proposal first,” +said he.</p> +<p>“Well, then, here you shall have it: I will not entertain your +proposal; I detest your schemes: they are both wicked and foolish.”</p> +<p>“Wicked,” said the man in black, “have they not—he! +he!—the furtherance of religion in view?”</p> +<p>“A religion,” said I, “in which you yourself do +not believe, and which you contemn.”</p> +<p>“Whether I believe in it or not,” said the man in black, +“it is adapted for the generality of the human race; so I will +forward it, and advise you to do the same. It was nearly extirpated +in these regions, but it is springing up again, owing to circumstances. +Radicalism is a good friend to us; all the liberals laud up our system +out of hatred to the Established Church, though our system is ten times +less liberal than the Church of England. Some of them have really +come over to us. I myself confess a baronet [Sir Charles Wolesley] +who presided over the first <!-- page 227--><a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span>radical +meeting ever held in England—he was an atheist when he came over +to us, in the hope of mortifying his own church—but he is now—ho! +ho!—a real Catholic devotee—quite afraid of my threats; +I made him frequently scourge himself before me. Well, Radicalism +does us good service, especially amongst the lower classes, for Radicalism +chiefly flourishes amongst them; for though a baronet or two may be +found amongst the radicals, and perhaps as many lords—fellows +who have been discarded by their own order for clownishness, or something +they have done—it incontestably flourishes best among the lower +orders. Then the love of what is foreign is a great friend to +us; this love is chiefly confined to the middle and upper classes. <a name="citation227"></a><a href="#footnote227">{227}</a> +Some admire the French, and imitate them; others must needs be Spaniards, +dress themselves up in a zamarra, stick a cigar in their mouths, and +say, ‘Carajo.’ Others would pass for Germans; he! +he! the idea of any one wishing to pass for a German! but what has done +us more service than anything else in these regions—I mean amidst +the middle classes—has been the novel, the Scotch novel. +The good folks, since they have read the novels, have become Jacobites; +and, because all the Jacobs were Papists, the good folks must become +Papists also, or, at least, papistically inclined. The very Scotch +Presbyterians, since they have read the <!-- page 228--><a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>novels, +are become all but Papists; I speak advisedly, having lately been amongst +them. There’s a trumpery bit of a half papist sect, called +the Scotch Episcopalian Church, which lay dormant and nearly forgotten +for upwards of a hundred years, which has of late got wonderfully into +fashion in Scotland, because, forsooth, some of the long-haired gentry +of the novels were said to belong to it, such as Montrose and Dundee; +and to this the Presbyterians are going over in throngs, traducing and +vilifying their own forefathers, or denying them altogether, and calling +themselves descendants of—ho! ho! ho!—Scottish Cavaliers!!! +I have heard them myself repeating snatches of Jacobite ditties about +‘Bonnie Dundee,’ and—</p> +<blockquote><p>“‘Come, fill up my cup, and fill up my can,<br /> +And saddle my horse, and call up my man.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>There’s stuff for you! Not that I object to the first +part of the ditty, it is natural enough that a Scotchman should cry, +‘Come, fill up my cup!’ more especially if he’s drinking +at another person’s expense—all Scotchmen being fond of +liquor at free cost: but ‘Saddle his horse!!!’—for +what purpose I would ask? Where is the use of saddling a horse, +unless you can ride him? and where was there ever a Scotchman who could +ride?”</p> +<p>“Of course you have not a drop of Scotch blood in your veins,” +said I, “otherwise you would never have uttered that last sentence.”</p> +<p>“Don’t be too sure of that,” said the man in black; +<!-- page 229--><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>“you +know little of Popery if you imagine that it cannot extinguish love +of country, even in a Scotchman. A thorough-going Papist—and +who more thorough-going than myself—cares nothing for his country; +and why should he? he belongs to a system, and not to a country.”</p> +<p>“One thing,” said I, “connected with you, I cannot +understand; you call yourself a thorough-going Papist, yet are continually +saying the most pungent things against Popery, and turning to unbounded +ridicule those who show any inclination to embrace it.”</p> +<p>“Rome is a very sensible old body,” said the man in black, +“and little cares what her children say, provided they do her +bidding. She knows several things, and amongst others, that no +servants work so hard and faithfully as those who curse their masters +at every stroke they do. She was not fool enough to be angry with +the Miquelets of Alba, who renounced her, and called her ‘puta’ +all the time they were cutting the throats of the Netherlanders. +Now, if she allowed her faithful soldiers the latitude of renouncing +her, and calling her ‘puta’ in the market-place, think not +she is so unreasonable as to object to her faithful priests occasionally +calling her ‘puta’ in the dingle.”</p> +<p>“But,” said I, “suppose some one were to tell the +world some of the disorderly things which her priests say in the dingle.”</p> +<p>“He would have the fate of Cassandra,” said the man in +black; “no one would believe him—yes, the priests would: +but they would make no sign of belief. <!-- page 230--><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 230</span>They +believe in the Alcoran des Cordeliers <a name="citation230"></a><a href="#footnote230">{230}</a>—that +is, those who have read it; but they make no sign.”</p> +<p>“A pretty system,” said I, “which extinguishes +love of country and of everything noble, and brings the minds of its +ministers to a parity with those of devils, who delight in nothing but +mischief.”</p> +<p>“The system,” said the man in black, “is a grand +one, with unbounded vitality. Compare it with your Protestantism, +and you will see the difference. Popery is ever at work, whilst +Protestantism is supine. A pretty church, indeed, the Protestant! +Why, it can’t even work a miracle.”</p> +<p>“Can your church work miracles?” I demanded.</p> +<p>“That was the very question,” said the man in black, +“which the ancient British clergy asked of Austin Monk, after +they had been fools enough to acknowledge their own inability. +‘We don’t pretend to work miracles; do you?’ +‘Oh! dear me, yes,’ said Austin; ‘we find no difficulty +in the matter. We can raise the dead, we can make the blind see; +and to convince you I will give sight to the blind. Here is this +blind Saxon, whom you cannot cure, but on whose eyes I will manifest +my power, in order to show the difference between the true and the false +church;’ and forthwith, with the assistance of a handkerchief +and a little hot water, he opened the eyes of the barbarian. So +we manage matters! A pretty church, that old British church, which +could not work miracles—quite as helpless as the modern one. +The <!-- page 231--><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 231</span>fools! +was birdlime so scarce a thing amongst them?—and were the properties +of warm water so unknown to them, that they could not close a pair of +eyes and open them?”</p> +<p>“It’s a pity,” said I, “that the British +clergy, at that interview with Austin, did not bring forward a blind +Welshman, and ask the monk to operate upon him.”</p> +<p>“Clearly,” said the man in black; “that’s +what they ought to have done; but they were fools without a single resource.” +Here he took a sip at his glass.</p> +<p>“But they did not believe in the miracle?” said I.</p> +<p>“And what did their not believing avail them?” said the +man in black. “Austin remained master of the field, and +they went away holding their heads down, and muttering to themselves. +What a fine subject for a painting would be Austin’s opening the +eyes of the Saxon barbarian, and the discomfiture of the British clergy! +I wonder it has not been painted!—he! he!”</p> +<p>“I suppose your church still pet forms miracles occasionally?” +said I.</p> +<p>“It does,” said the man in black. “The Rev. +. . . has lately been performing miracles in Ireland, destroying devils +that had got possession of people; he has been eminently successful. +In two instances he not only destroyed the devils, but the lives of +the people possessed—he! he! Oh! there is so much energy +in our system; we are always at work, whilst Protestantism is supine.”</p> +<p>“You must not imagine,” said I, “that all Protestants +are supine; some of them appear to be filled with unbounded zeal. +They deal, it is true, not in lying <!-- page 232--><a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 232</span>miracles, +but they propagate God’s Word. I remember only a few months +ago, having occasion for a Bible, going to an establishment, the object +of which was to send Bibles all over the world. The supporters +of that establishment could have no self-interested views; for I was +supplied by them with a noble-sized Bible at a price so small as to +preclude the idea that it could bring any profit to the vendors.”</p> +<p>The countenance of the man in black slightly fell. “I +know the people to whom you allude,” said he; “indeed, unknown +to them, I have frequently been to see them, and observed their ways. +I tell you frankly that there is not a set of people in this kingdom +who have caused our church so much trouble and uneasiness. I should +rather say that they alone cause us any; for as for the rest, what with +their drowsiness, their plethora, their folly, and their vanity, they +are doing us anything but mischief. These fellows are a pestilent +set of heretics, whom we would gladly see burnt; they are, with the +most untiring perseverance, and in spite of divers minatory declarations +of the holy father, scattering their books abroad through all Europe, +and have caused many people in Catholic countries to think that hitherto +their priesthood have endeavoured, as much as possible, to keep them +blinded. There is one fellow amongst them for whom we entertain +a particular aversion; a big, burly parson, with the face of a lion, +the voice of a buffalo, and a fist like a sledge-hammer. The last +time I was there, I observed that his eye was upon me, and I did not +like the glance he gave me <!-- page 233--><a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 233</span>at +all; I observed him clench his fist, and I took my departure as fast +as I conveniently could. Whether he suspected who I was, I know +not; but I did not like his look at all, and do not intend to go again.”</p> +<p>“Well then,” said I, “you confess that you have +redoubtable enemies to your plans in these regions, and that even amongst +the ecclesiastics there are some widely different from those of the +plethoric and Platitude schools.”</p> +<p>“It is but too true,” said the man in black; “and +if the rest of your church were like them we should quickly bid adieu +to all hope of converting these regions, but we are thankful to be able +to say that such folks are not numerous; there are, moreover, causes +at work quite sufficient to undermine even their zeal. Their sons +return at the vacations, from Oxford and Cambridge, puppies, full of +the nonsense which they have imbibed from Platitude professors; and +this nonsense they retail at home, where it fails not to make some impression, +whilst the daughters scream—I beg their pardons—warble about +Scotland’s Montrose, and Bonny Dundee, and all the Jacobs; so +we have no doubt that their papa’s zeal about the propagation +of such a vulgar book as the Bible will in a very little time be terribly +diminished. Old Rome will win, so you had better join her.”</p> +<p>And the man in black drained the last drop in his glass.</p> +<p>“Never,” said I, “will I become the slave of Rome.”</p> +<p>“She will allow you latitude,” said the man in black; +“do but serve her, and she will allow you to call her ‘puta’ +at a decent time and place, her popes occasionally <!-- page 234--><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 234</span>call +her ‘puta.’ A pope has been known to start from his +bed at midnight and rush out into the corridor, and call out ‘puta’ +three times in a voice which pierced the Vatican; that pope was . . +.”</p> +<p>“Alexander the Sixth, I dare say,” said I; “the +greatest monster that ever existed, though the worthiest head which +the popish system ever had—so his conscience was not always still. +I thought it had been seared with a brand of iron.”</p> +<p>“I did not allude to him, but to a much more modern pope,” +said the man in black; “it is true he brought the word, which +is Spanish, from Spain, his native country, to Rome. He was very +fond of calling the church by that name, and other popes have taken +it up. She will allow you to call her by it if you belong to her.”</p> +<p>“I shall call her so,” said I, “without belonging +to her, or asking her permission.”</p> +<p>“She will allow you to treat her as such if you belong to her,” +said the man in black. “There is a chapel in Rome, where +there is a wondrously fair statue—the son of a cardinal—I +mean his nephew—once . . . Well, she did not cut off his +head, but slightly boxed his cheek and bade him go.”</p> +<p>“I have read all about that in ‘Keysler’s Travels,’” +said I; “do you tell her that I would not touch her with a pair +of tongs, unless to seize her nose.”</p> +<p>“She is fond of lucre,” said the man in black; “but +does not grudge a faithful priest a little private perquisite,” +and he took out a very handsome gold repeater.</p> +<p><!-- page 235--><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 235</span>“Are +you not afraid,” said I, “to flash that watch before the +eyes of a poor tinker in a dingle?”</p> +<p>“Not before the eyes of one like you,” said the man in +black.</p> +<p>“It is getting late,” said I; “I care not for perquisites.”</p> +<p>“So you will not join us?” said the man in black.</p> +<p>“You have had my answer,” said I.</p> +<p>“If I belong to Rome,” said the man in black, “why +should not you?”</p> +<p>“I may be a poor tinker,” said I; “but I may never +have undergone what you have. You remember, perhaps, the fable +of the fox who had lost his tail?”</p> +<p>The man in black winced, but almost immediately recovering himself, +he said, “Well, we can do without you: we are sure of winning.”</p> +<p>“It is not the part of wise people,” said I, “to +make sure of the battle before it is fought: there’s the landlord +of the public-house, who made sure that his cocks would win, yet the +cocks lost the main, and the landlord is little better than a bankrupt.”</p> +<p>“People very different from the landlord,” said the man +in black, “both in intellect and station, think we shall surely +win; there are clever machinators among us who have no doubt of our +success.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “I will set the landlord aside, +and will adduce one who was in every point a very different person from +the landlord, both in understanding and station; he was very fond of +laying schemes, and, indeed, many of them turned out successful. +His last <!-- page 236--><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span>and +darling one, however, miscarried, notwithstanding that by his calculations +he had persuaded himself that there was no possibility of its failing—the +person that I allude to was old Fraser . . .”</p> +<p>“Who?” said the man in black, giving a start, and letting +his glass fall.</p> +<p>“Old Fraser, of Lovat,” said I, “the prince of +all conspirators and machinators; he made sure of placing the Pretender +on the throne of these realms. ‘I can bring into the field +so many men,’ said he; ‘my son-in-law, Cluny, so many, and +likewise my cousin, and my good friend;’ then speaking of those +on whom the government reckoned for support he would say, ‘So-and-so +is lukewarm; this person is ruled by his wife, who is with us; the clergy +are anything but hostile to us; and as for the soldiers and sailors, +half are disaffected to King George, and the rest cowards.’ +Yet when things came to a trial, this person whom he had calculated +upon to join the Pretender did not stir from his home, another joined +the hostile ranks, the presumed cowards turned out heroes, and those +whom he thought heroes ran away like lusty fellows at Culloden; in a +word, he found himself utterly mistaken, and in nothing more than himself; +he thought he was a hero, and proved himself nothing more than an old +fox; he got up a hollow tree, didn’t he, just like a fox?</p> +<blockquote><p>“‘L’ opere sue non furon leonine, ma +di volpe.’” <a name="citation237"></a><a href="#footnote237">{237}</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>The man in black sat silent for a considerable time, <!-- page 237--><a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 237</span>and +at length answered, in rather a faltering voice, “I was not prepared +for this; you have frequently surprised me by your knowledge of things +which I should never have expected any person of your appearance to +be acquainted with, but that you should be aware of my name is a circumstance +utterly incomprehensible to me. I had imagined that no person +in England was acquainted with it; indeed, I don’t see how any +person should be, I have revealed it to no one, not being particularly +proud of it. Yes, I acknowledge that my name is Fraser, and that +I am of the blood of that family or clan, of which the rector of our +college once said that he was firmly of opinion that every individual +member was either rogue or fool. I was born at Madrid, of pure, +<i>oimè</i>, Fraser blood. My parents at an early age took +me to [Rome], where they shortly died, not, however, before they had +placed me in the service of a cardinal, with whom I continued some years, +and who, when he had no further occasion for me, sent me to the college, +in the left-hand cloister of which, as you enter, rest the bones of +Sir John D[ereham]; there, in studying logic and humane letters, I lost +whatever of humanity I had retained when discarded by the cardinal. +Let me not, however, forget two points,—I am a Fraser, it is true, +but not a Flannagan; I may bear the vilest name of Britain, but not +of Ireland; I was bred up at the English house, and there is at [Rome] +a house for the education of bog-trotters; I was not bred up at that; +beneath the lowest gulf, there is one yet lower; whatever my blood may +be, it is <!-- page 238--><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 238</span>at +least not Irish; whatever my education may have been, I was not bred +at the Irish seminary—on those accounts I am thankful—yes, +<i>per dio</i>! I am thankful. After some years at college—but +why should I tell you my history, you know it already perfectly well, +probably much better than myself. I am now a missionary priest +labouring in heretic England, like Parsons and Garnet of old, save and +except that, unlike them, I run no danger, for the times are changed. +As I told you before, I shall cleave to Rome—I must; <i>no hay +remedio</i>, as they say at Madrid, and I will do my best to further +her holy plans—he! he!—but I confess I begin to doubt of +their being successful here—you put me out; old Fraser, of Lovat! +I have heard my father talk of him; he had a gold-headed cane, with +which he once knocked my grandfather down—he was an astute one, +but as you say, mistaken, particularly in himself. I have read +his life by Arbuthnot, <a name="citation238a"></a><a href="#footnote238a">{238a}</a> +it is in the library of our college. Farewell! I shall come +no more to this dingle—to come would be of no utility; I shall +go and labour elsewhere, though . . . how you came to know my name is +a fact quite inexplicable—farewell! to you both.”</p> +<p>He then arose; and without further salutation departed from the dingle, +in which I never saw him again. <a name="citation238b"></a><a href="#footnote238b">{238b}</a></p> +<p>“How, in the name of wonder, came you to know <!-- page 239--><a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 239</span>that +man’s name?” said Belle, after he had been gone some time.</p> +<p>“I, Belle? I knew nothing of the fellow’s name, +I assure you.”</p> +<p>“But you mentioned his name.”</p> +<p>“If I did, it was merely casually, by way of illustration. +I was saying how frequently cunning people were mistaken in their calculations, +and I adduced the case of old Fraser, of Lovat, as one in point; I brought +forward his name, because I was well-acquainted with his history, from +having compiled and inserted it in a wonderful work, which I edited +some months ago, entitled ‘Newgate Lives and Trials,’ but +without the slightest idea that it was the name of him who was sitting +with us; he, however, thought that I was aware of his name. Belle! +Belle! for a long time I doubted the truth of Scripture, owing to certain +conceited individuals, but now I begin to believe firmly; what wonderful +texts are in Scripture, Belle! ‘The wicked trembleth where—where +. . .’”</p> +<p>“‘They were afraid where no fear was; thou hast put them +to confusion, because God hath despised them,’” said Belle; +“I have frequently read it before the clergyman in the great house +of Long Melford. But if you did not know the man’s name, +why let him go away supposing that you did?”</p> +<p>“Oh, if he was fool enough to make such a mistake, I was not +going to undeceive him—no, no! Let the enemies of old England +make the most of all their blunders and mistakes, they will have no +help from me; <!-- page 240--><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 240</span>but +enough of the fellow, Belle, let us now have tea, and after that . . +.”</p> +<p>“No Armenian,” said Belle; “but I want to ask a +question: pray are all people of that man’s name either rogues +or fools?”</p> +<p>“It is impossible for me to say, Belle, this person being the +only one of the name I have ever personally known. I suppose there +are good and bad, clever and foolish, amongst them, as amongst all large +bodies of people; however, after the tribe had been governed for upwards +of thirty years by such a person as old Fraser, it were no wonder if +the greater part had become either rogues or fools: he was a ruthless +tyrant, Belle, over his own people, and by his cruelty and rapaciousness +must either have stunned them into an apathy approaching to idiocy, +or made them artful knaves in their own defence. The qualities +of parents are generally transmitted to their descendants—the +progeny of trained pointers are almost sure to point, even without being +taught: if, therefore, all Frasers are either rogues or fools, as this +person seems to insinuate, it is little to be wondered at, their parents +or grandparents having been in the training-school of old Fraser! but +enough of the old tyrant and his slaves. Belle, prepare tea this +moment, or dread my anger. I have not a gold-headed cane like +old Fraser of Lovat, but I have, what some people would dread much more, +an Armenian rune-stick.”</p> +<h2><!-- page 241--><a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 241</span>CHAPTER +XXI.—FRESH ARRIVALS—PITCHING THE TENT—CERTIFICATED +WIFE—HIGH-FLYING NOTIONS.</h2> +<p>On the following morning, as I was about to leave my tent, I heard +the voice of Belle at the door, exclaiming, “Sleepest thou, or +wakest thou?” “I was never more awake in my life,” +said I, going out, “What is the matter?” “He +of the horse-shoe,” said she, “Jasper, of whom I have heard +you talk, is above there on the field with all his people; I went about +a quarter of an hour ago to fill the kettle at the spring, and saw them +arriving.” “It is well,” said I; “have +you any objection to asking him and his wife to breakfast?” +“You can do as you please,” said she; “I have cups +enough, and have no objection to their company.” “We +are the first occupiers of the ground,” said I, “and, being +so, should consider ourselves in the light of hosts, and do our best +to practise the duties of hospitality.” “How fond +you are of using that word!” said Belle: “if you wish to +invite the man and his wife, do so, without more ado; remember, however, +that I have not cups enough, nor indeed tea enough, for the whole company.” +Thereupon hurrying up the ascent, I presently found myself outside the +dingle. It was as usual a brilliant morning, the dewy blades of +the rye-grass which covered the plain sparkled brightly in the beams +of the sun, which had probably been about two hours above the horizon. +A rather numerous body of my ancient friends and allies occupied <!-- page 242--><a name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 242</span>the +ground in the vicinity of the mouth of the dingle. About five +yards on the right I perceived Mr. Petulengro busily employed in erecting +his tent; he held in his hand an iron bar, sharp at the bottom, with +a kind of arm projecting from the top for the purpose of supporting +a kettle or cauldron over the fire, and which is called in the Romanian +language “Kekauviskoe saster.” With the sharp end +of this Mr. Petulengro was making holes in the earth at about twenty +inches’ distance from each other, into which he inserted certain +long rods with a considerable bend towards the top, which constituted +no less than the timbers of the tent, and the supporters of the canvas. +Mrs. Petulengro and a female with a crutch in her hand, whom I recognised +as Mrs. Chikno, sat near him on the ground, whilst two or three children, +from six to ten years old, who composed the young family of Mr. and +Mrs. Petulengro, were playing about.</p> +<p>“Here we are, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, as he drove +the sharp end of the bar into the ground; “here we are, and plenty +of us—Bute dosta Romany chals.” <a name="citation242"></a><a href="#footnote242">{242}</a></p> +<p>“I am glad to see you all,” said I; “and particularly +you, madam,” said I, making a bow to Mrs. Petulengro; “and +you also, madam,” taking off my hat to Mrs. Chikno.</p> +<p>“Good day to you, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “you +look as usual, charmingly, and speak so, too; you have not forgot your +manners.”</p> +<p>“It is not all gold that glitters,” said Mrs. Chikno. +“However, good-morrow to you, young rye.”</p> +<p><!-- page 243--><a name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 243</span>“I +do not see Tawno,” said I, looking around; “where is he?”</p> +<p>“Where, indeed!” said Mrs. Chikno; “I don’t +know; he who countenances him in the roving line can best answer.”</p> +<p>“He will be here anon,” said Mr. Petulengro; “he +has merely ridden down a by-road to show a farmer a two-year-old colt; +she heard me give him directions, but she can’t be satisfied.”</p> +<p>“I can’t indeed,” said Mrs. Chikno.</p> +<p>“And why not, sister?”</p> +<p>“Because I place no confidence in your words, brother; as I +said before, you countenances him.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “I know nothing of your private +concerns; I am come on an errand. Isopel Berners, down in the +dell there, requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro’s +company at breakfast. She will be happy also to see you, madam,” +said I, addressing Mrs. Chikno.</p> +<p>“Is that young female your wife, young man?” said Mrs. +Chikno.</p> +<p>“My wife?” said I.</p> +<p>“Yes, young man, your wife, your lawful certificated wife.”</p> +<p>“No,” said I, “she is not my wife.”</p> +<p>“Then I will not visit with her,” said Mrs. Chikno; “I +countenance nothing in the roving line.”</p> +<p>“What do you mean by the roving line?” I demanded.</p> +<p>“What do I mean by the roving line? Why, by it <!-- page 244--><a name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 244</span>I +mean such conduct as is no ttatcheno. <a name="citation244a"></a><a href="#footnote244a">{244a}</a> +When ryes and rawnies <a name="citation244b"></a><a href="#footnote244b">{244b}</a> +lives together in dingles, without being certificated, I calls such +behaviour being tolerably deep in the roving line, everything savouring +of which I am determined not to sanctify. I have suffered too +much by my own certificated husband’s outbreaks in that line to +afford anything of the kind the slightest shadow of countenance.”</p> +<p>“It is hard that people may not live in dingles together without +being suspected of doing wrong,” said I.</p> +<p>“So it is,” said Mrs. Petulengro, interposing; “and, +to tell you the truth, I am altogether surprised at the illiberality +of my sister’s remarks. I have often heard say, that is +in good company—and I have kept good company in my time—that +suspicion is king’s evidence of a narrow and uncultivated mind; +on which account I am suspicious of nobody, not even of my own husband, +whom some people would think I have a right to be suspicious of, seeing +that on his account I once refused a lord; but ask him whether I am +suspicious of him, and whether I seek to keep him close tied to my apron-string; +he will tell you nothing of the kind; but that, on the contrary, I always +allows him an agreeable latitude, permitting him to go where he pleases, +and to converse with any one to whose manner of speaking he may take +a fancy. But I have had the advantage of keeping good company, +and therefore . . .”</p> +<p>“Meklis,” <a name="citation244c"></a><a href="#footnote244c">{244c}</a> +said Mrs. Chikno, “pray drop all that, <!-- page 245--><a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 245</span>sister; +I believe I have kept as good company as yourself; and with respect +to that offer with which you frequently fatigue those who keeps company +with you, I believe, after all, it was something in the roving and uncertificated +line.”</p> +<p>“In whatever line it was,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “the +offer was a good one. The young duke—for he was not only +a lord, but a duke too—offered to keep me a fine carriage, and +to make me his second wife; for it is true that he had another who was +old and stout, though mighty rich, and highly good-natured; so much +so, indeed, that the young lord assured me that she would have no manner +of objection to the arrangement; more especially if I would consent +to live in the same house with her, being fond of young and cheerful +society. So you see . . .”</p> +<p>“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Chikno, “I see, what I before +thought, that it was altogether in the uncertificated line.”</p> +<p>“Meklis,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “I use your own +word, madam, which is Romany; for my own part, I am not fond of using +Romany words, unless I can hope to pass them off for French, which I +cannot in the present company. I heartily wish that there was +no such language, and do my best to keep it away from my children, lest +the frequent use of it should altogether confirm them in low and vulgar +habits. I have four children, madam, but . . .”</p> +<p>“I suppose by talking of your four children you wish to check +me for having none,” said Mrs. Chikno, <!-- page 246--><a name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 246</span>bursting +into tears; “if I have no children, sister, it is no fault of +mine, it is—but why do I call you sister,” said she angrily, +“you are no sister of mine, you are a grasni, a regular mare—a +pretty sister, indeed, ashamed of your own language. I remember +well that by your high-flying notions you drove your own mother . . +.”</p> +<p>“We will drop it,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “I do +not wish to raise my voice, and to make myself ridiculous. Young +gentleman,” said she, “pray present my compliments to Miss +Isopel Berners, and inform her that I am very sorry that I cannot accept +her polite invitation. I am just arrived, and have some slight +domestic matters to see to, amongst others, to wash my children’s +faces; but that in the course of the forenoon, when I have attended +to what I have to do, and have dressed myself, I hope to do myself the +honour of paying her a regular visit; you will tell her that with my +compliments. With respect to my husband he can answer for himself, +as I, not being of a jealous disposition, never interferes with his +matters.”</p> +<p>“And tell Miss Berners,” said Mr. Petulengro, “that +I shall be happy to wait upon her in company with my wife as soon as +we are regularly settled; at present I have much on my hands, having +not only to pitch my own tent, but this here jealous woman’s, +whose husband is absent on my business.”</p> +<p>Thereupon I returned to the dingle, and without saying anything about +Mrs. Chikno’s observations, communicated to Isopel the messages +of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro; Isopel made no other reply than by replacing +<!-- page 247--><a name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 247</span>in +her coffer two additional cups and saucers, which, in expectation of +company, she had placed upon the board. The kettle was by this +time boiling. We sat down, and as we breakfasted, I gave Isopel +Berners another lesson in the Armenian language.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXII.—THE PROMISED VISIT—ROMAN FASHION—WIZARD +AND WITCH—CATCHING AT WORDS—THE TWO FEMALES—DRESSING +OF HAIR—THE NEW ROADS—BELLE’S ALTERED APPEARANCE—HERSELF +AGAIN.</h2> +<p>About mid-day Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro <a name="citation247"></a><a href="#footnote247">{247}</a> +came to the dingle to pay the promised visit. Belle, at the time +of their arrival, was in her tent, but I was at the fireplace, engaged +in hammering part of the outer-tire, or defence, which had come off +from one of the wheels of my vehicle. On perceiving them I forthwith +went to receive them. Mr. Petulengro was dressed in Roman fashion, +<!-- page 248--><a name="page248"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 248</span>with +a somewhat smartly-cut sporting-coat, the buttons of which were half-crowns—and +a waistcoat, scarlet and black, the buttons of which were spaded half-guineas; +his breeches were of a stuff half velveteen, half corduroy, the cords +exceedingly broad. He had leggings of buff cloth, furred at the +bottom: and upon his feet were highlows. Under his left arm was +a long black whalebone riding-whip, with a red lash, and an immense +silver knob. Upon his head was a hat with a high peak, somewhat +of the kind which the Spaniards call <i>calané</i>, so much in +favour with the bravos of Seville and Madrid. Now when I have +added that Mr. Petulengro had on a very fine white holland shirt, I +think I have described his array. Mrs. Petulengro—I beg +pardon for not having spoken of her first—was also arrayed very +much in the Roman fashion. Her hair, which was exceedingly black +and lustrous, fell in braids on either side of her head. <!-- page 249--><a name="page249"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 249</span>In +her ears were rings, with long drops of gold. Round her neck was +a string of what seemed very much like very large pearls, somewhat tarnished, +however, and apparently of considerable antiquity. “Here +we are, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “here we are, come +to see you—wizard and witch, witch and wizard:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“‘There’s a chovahanee, and a chovahano, +<a name="citation249a"></a><a href="#footnote249a">{249a}</a><br /> +The nav se len is Petulengro.’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “you +make me ashamed of you with your vulgar ditties. We are come a-visiting +now, and everything low should be left behind.”</p> +<p>“True,” said Mr. Petulengro; “why bring what’s +low to the dingle, which is low enough already?”</p> +<p>“What, are you a catcher at words?” said I. “I +thought that catching at words had been confined to the pothouse farmers +and village witty bodies.”</p> +<p>“All fools,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “catch at words, +and very naturally, as by so doing they hope to prevent the possibility +of rational conversation. Catching at words confined to pothouse +farmers and village witty bodies! No, nor to Jasper Petulengro. +Listen for an hour or two to the discourse of a set they call newspaper +editors, and if you don’t go out and eat grass, as a dog does +when he is sick, I am no female woman. The young lord whose hand +I refused when I took up with wise Jasper once brought two of them to +my mother’s tan, <a name="citation249b"></a><a href="#footnote249b">{249b}</a> +when hankering after my <!-- page 250--><a name="page250"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 250</span>company; +they did nothing but carp at each other’s words, and a pretty +hand they made of it. Ill-favoured dogs they were, and their attempt +at what they called wit almost as unfortunate as their countenances.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “madam, we will drop all catchings +and carpings for the present. Pray take your seat on this stool, +whilst I go and announce to Miss Isopel Berners your arrival.”</p> +<p>Thereupon I went to Belle’s habitation, and informed her that +Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro had paid us a visit of ceremony, and were awaiting +her at the fireplace. “Pray go and tell them that I am busy,” +said Belle, who was engaged with her needle. “I do not feel +disposed to take part in any such nonsense.” “I shall +do no such thing,” said I, “and I insist upon your coming +forthwith, and showing proper courtesy to your visitors. If you +do not their feelings will be hurt, and you are aware that I cannot +bear that people’s feelings should be outraged. Come this +moment, or . . .” “Or what?” said Belle, half +smiling. “I was about to say something in Armenian,” +said I. “Well,” said Belle, laying down her work, +“I will come.” “Stay,” said I, “your +hair is hanging about your ears, and your dress is in disorder; you +had better stay a minute or two to prepare yourself to appear before +your visitors, who have come in their very best attire.” +“No,” said Belle, “I will make no alteration in my +appearance; you told me to come this moment, and you shall be obeyed.”</p> +<p>So Belle and I advanced towards our guests. As <!-- page 251--><a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 251</span>we +drew nigh Mr. Petulengro took off his hat and made a profound obeisance +to Belle, whilst Mrs. Petulengro rose from the stool and made a profound +curtsey. Belle, who had flung her hair back over her shoulders, +returned their salutations by bending her head, and after slightly glancing +at Mr. Petulengro, fixed her large blue eyes full upon his wife. +Both these females were very handsome—but how unlike! Belle +fair, with blue eyes and flaxen hair; Mrs. Petulengro with olive complexion, +eyes black, and hair dark—as dark as could be. Belle, in +demeanour calm and proud; the gypsy graceful, but full of movement and +agitation. And then how different were those two in stature! +The head of the Romany rawnie scarcely ascended to the breast of Isopel +Berners. I could see that Mrs. Petulengro gazed on Belle with +unmixed admiration: so did her husband. “Well,” said +the latter, “one thing I will say, which is, that there is only +one on earth worthy to stand up in front of this she, and that is the +beauty of the world, as far as man flesh is concerned, Tawno Chikno; +what a pity he did not come down!”</p> +<p>“Tawno Chikno,” said Mrs. Petulengro, flaring up; “a +pretty fellow he to stand up in front of this gentlewoman, a pity he +didn’t come, quotha? not at all, the fellow is a sneak, afraid +of his wife. He stand up against this rawnie! why the look she +has given me would knock the fellow down.”</p> +<p>“It is easier to knock him down with a look than with a fist,” +said Mr. Petulengro; “that is, if the <!-- page 252--><a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 252</span>look +comes from a woman: not that I am disposed to doubt that this female +gentlewoman is able to knock him down either one way or the other. +I have heard of her often enough, and have seen her once or twice, though +not so near as now. Well, ma’am, my wife and I are come +to pay our respects to you; we are both glad to find that you have left +off keeping company with Flaming Bosville, and have taken up with my +pal; he is not very handsome, but a better . . . .”</p> +<p>“I take up with your pal, as you call him; you had better mind +what you say,” said Isopel Berners; “I take up with nobody.”</p> +<p>“I merely mean taking up your quarters with him,” said +Mr. Petulengro; “and I was only about to say a better fellow-lodger +you cannot have, or a more instructive, especially if you have a desire +to be inoculated with tongues, as he calls them. I wonder whether +you and he have had any tongue-work already.”</p> +<p>“Have you and your wife anything particular to say? If +you have nothing but this kind of conversation I must leave you, as +I am going to make a journey this afternoon, and should be getting ready.”</p> +<p>“You must excuse my husband, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro; +“he is not overburdened with understanding, and has said but one +word of sense since he has been here, which was that we came to pay +our respects to you. We have dressed ourselves in our best Roman +way, in order to do honour to you; perhaps you do not like it; if so, +I am sorry. I have no French clothes, madam; if I had any, madam, +<!-- page 253--><a name="page253"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 253</span>I +would have come in them in order to do you more honour.”</p> +<p>“I like to see you much better as you are,” said Belle; +“people should keep to their own fashions, and yours is very pretty.”</p> +<p>“I am glad you are pleased to think it so, madam; it has been +admired in the great city, it created what they call a sensation, and +some of the great ladies, the court ladies, imitated it, else I should +not appear in it so often as I am accustomed; for I am not very fond +of what is Roman, having an imagination that what is Roman is ungenteel; +in fact, I once heard the wife of a rich citizen say that gypsies were +vulgar creatures. I should have taken her saying very much to +heart, but for her improper pronunciation; she could not pronounce her +words, madam, which we gypsies, as they call us, usually can, so I thought +she was no very high purchase. You are very beautiful, madam, +though you are not dressed as I could wish to see you, and your hair +is hanging down in sad confusion; allow me to assist you in arranging +your hair, madam; I will dress it for you in our fashion; I would fain +see how your hair would look in our poor gypsy fashion; pray allow me, +madam?” and she took Belle by the hand.</p> +<p>“I really can do no such thing,” said Belle, withdrawing +her hand; “I thank you for coming to see me, but . . .”</p> +<p>“Do allow me to officiate upon your hair, madam,” said +Mrs. Petulengro; “I should esteem your allowing <!-- page 254--><a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 254</span>me +a great mark of condescension. You are very beautiful, madam, +and I think you doubly so, because you are so fair; I have a great esteem +for persons with fair complexions and hair; I have a less regard for +people with dark hair and complexions, madam.”</p> +<p>“Then why did you turn off the lord, and take up with me?” +said Mr. Petulengro; “that same lord was fair enough all about +him.”</p> +<p>“People do when they are young and silly what they sometimes +repent of when they are of riper years and understandings. I sometimes +think that had I not been something of a simpleton, I might at this +time be a great court lady. Now, madam,” said she, again +taking Belle by the hand, “do oblige me by allowing me to plait +your hair a little?”</p> +<p>“I have really a good mind to be angry with you,” said +Belle, giving Mrs. Petulengro a peculiar glance.</p> +<p>“Do allow her to arrange your hair,” said I, “she +means no harm, and wishes to do you honour; do oblige her and me too, +for I should like to see how your hair would look dressed in her fashion.”</p> +<p>“You hear what the young rye says?” said Mrs. Petulengro. +“I am sure you will oblige the young rye, if not myself. +Many people would be willing to oblige the young rye, if he would but +ask them; but he is not in the habit of asking favours. He has +a nose of his own, which he keeps tolerably exalted; he does not think +small-beer of himself, madam; and all the time I have been with him, +I never heard him ask a favour before; therefore, madam, I am sure you +<!-- page 255--><a name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 255</span>will +oblige him. My sister Ursula would be very willing to oblige him +in many things, but he will not ask for anything, except for such a +favour as a word, which is a poor favour after all. I don’t +mean for her word; perhaps he will some day ask you for your word. +If so . . .”</p> +<p>“Why here you are, after railing at me for catching at words, +catching at a word yourself,” said Mr. Petulengro.</p> +<p>“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro. +“Don’t interrupt me in my discourse; if I caught at a word +now, I am not in the habit of doing so. I am no conceited body; +no newspaper Neddy; no pothouse witty person. I was about to say, +madam, that if the young rye asks you at any time for your word, you +will do as you deem convenient; but I am sure you will oblige him by +allowing me to braid your hair.”</p> +<p>“I shall not do it to oblige him,” said Belle; “the +young rye, as you call him, is nothing to me.”</p> +<p>“Well, then, to oblige me,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “do +allow me to become your poor tire-woman.”</p> +<p>“It is great nonsense,” said Belle, reddening; “however, +as you came to see me, and ask the matter as a particular favour to +yourself . . .”</p> +<p>“Thank you, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, leading Belle +to the stool; “please to sit down here. Thank you; your +hair is very beautiful, madam,” she continued as she proceeded +to braid Belle’s hair; “so is your countenance. Should +you ever go to the great city, among the grand folks, you would make +a sensation, madam. I have made one myself, who am dark; the <!-- page 256--><a name="page256"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 256</span>chi +she is kauley, which last word signifies black, which I am not, though +rather dark. There’s no colour like white, madam; it’s +so lasting, so genteel. Gentility will carry the day, madam, even +with the young rye. He will ask words of the black lass, but beg +the word of the fair.”</p> +<p>In the meantime Mr. Petulengro and myself entered into conversation. +“Any news stirring, Mr. Petulengro?” said I. “Have +you heard anything of the great religious movements?”</p> +<p>“Plenty,” said Mr. Petulengro; “all the religious +people, more especially the Evangelicals—those that go about distributing +tracts—are very angry about the fight between Gentleman Cooper +and White-headed Bob, which they say ought not to have been permitted +to take place; and then they are trying all they can to prevent the +fight between the lion and the dogs, <a name="citation256"></a><a href="#footnote256">{256}</a> +which they say is a disgrace to a Christian country. Now, I can’t +say that I have any quarrel with the religious party and the Evangelicals; +they are always civil to me and mine, and frequently give us tracts, +as they call them, which neither I nor mine can read; but I cannot say +that I approve of any movements, religious or not, which have in aim +to put down all life and manly sport in this here country.”</p> +<p>“Anything else?” said I.</p> +<p><!-- page 257--><a name="page257"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 257</span>“People +are becoming vastly sharp,” said Mr. Petulengro; “and I +am told that all the old-fashioned, good-tempered constables are going +to be set aside, and a paid body of men to be established, <a name="citation257"></a><a href="#footnote257">{257}</a> +who are not to permit a tramper or vagabond on the roads of England;—and +talking of roads puts me in mind of a strange story I heard two nights +ago, whilst drinking some beer at a public-house, in company with my +cousin Sylvester. I had asked Tawno to go, but his wife would +not let him. Just opposite me, smoking their pipes, were a couple +of men, something like engineers, and they were talking of a wonderful +invention which was to make a wonderful alteration in England; inasmuch +as it would set aside all the old roads, which in a little time would +be ploughed up, and sowed with corn, and cause all England to be laid +down with iron roads, on which people would go thundering along in vehicles, +pushed forward by fire and smoke. Now, brother, when I heard this, +I did not feel very comfortable; for I thought to myself, what a queer +place such a road would be to pitch one’s tent upon, and how impossible +it would be for one’s cattle to find a bite of grass upon it; +and I thought likewise of the danger to which one’s family would +be exposed of being run over and severely scorched by these same flying, +fiery vehicles; so I made bold to say that I hoped such an invention +would never be countenanced, because it was likely to do a great deal +of harm. Whereupon, one of the men, giving me a glance, said, +without taking <!-- page 258--><a name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 258</span>the +pipe out of his mouth, that for his part he sincerely hoped that it +would take effect; and if it did no other good than stopping the rambles +of gypsies, and other like scamps, it ought to be encouraged. +Well, brother, feeling myself insulted, I put my hand into my pocket, +in order to pull out money, intending to challenge him to fight for +a five-shilling stake, but merely found sixpence, having left all my +other money at the tent; which sixpence was just sufficient to pay for +the beer which Sylvester and myself were drinking, of whom I couldn’t +hope to borrow anything—‘poor as Sylvester’ being +a by-word amongst us. So, not being able to back myself, I held +my peace, and let the Gorgio have it all his own way, who, after turning +up his nose at me, went on discoursing about the said invention, saying +what a fund of profit it would be to those who knew how to make use +of it, and should have the laying down of the new roads, and the shoeing +of England with iron. And after he had said this, and much more +of the same kind, which I cannot remember, he and his companion got +up and walked away; and presently I and Sylvester got up and walked +to our camp; and there I lay down in my tent by the side of my wife, +where I had an ugly dream of having camped upon an iron road; my tent +being overturned by a flying vehicle; my wife’s leg injured; and +all my affairs put into great confusion.”</p> +<p>“Now, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “I have braided +your hair in our fashion: you look very beautiful, madam; more beautiful, +if possible, than before.” Belle now rose, and came forward +with her <!-- page 259--><a name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 259</span>tire-woman. +Mr. Petulengro was loud in his applause, but I said nothing, for I did +not think Belle was improved in appearance by having submitted to the +ministry of Mrs. Petulengro’s hand. Nature never intended +Belle to appear as a gypsy; she had made her too proud and serious. +A more proper part for her was that of a heroine, a queenly heroine,—that +of Theresa of Hungary, for example; or, better still, that of Brynhilda +the Valkyrie, the beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer, who incurred +the curse of Odin, because, in the tumult of spears, she sided with +the young king, and doomed the old warrior to die, to whom Odin had +promised victory.</p> +<p>Belle looked at me for a moment in silence; then turning to Mrs. +Petulengro, she said, “You have had your will with me; are you +satisfied?” “Quite so, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, +“and I hope you will be so too, as soon as you have looked in +the glass.” “I have looked in one already,” +said Belle, “and the glass does not flatter.” “You +mean the face of the young rye,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “never +mind him, madam; the young rye, though he knows a thing or two, is not +a university, nor a person of universal wisdom. I assure you that +you never looked so well before; and I hope that, from this moment, +you will wear your hair in this way.” “And who is +to braid it in this way?” said Belle, smiling. “I, +madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “I will braid it for you every +morning, if you will but be persuaded to join us. Do so, madam, +and I think, if you did, the young rye would do so <!-- page 260--><a name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 260</span>too.” +“The young rye is nothing to me, nor I to him,” said Belle; +“we have stayed some time together; but our paths will soon be +apart. Now, farewell, for I am about to take a journey.” +“And you will go out with your hair as I have braided it,” +said Mrs. Petulengro; “if you do, everybody will be in love with +you.” “No,” said Belle, “hitherto I have +allowed you to do what you please, but henceforth I shall have my own +way. Come, come,” said she, observing that the gypsy was +about to speak, “we have had enough of nonsense; whenever I leave +this hollow, it will be wearing my hair in my own fashion.” +“Come, wife,” said Mr. Petulengro, “we will no longer +intrude upon the rye and rawnie, there is such a thing as being troublesome.” +Thereupon Mr. Petulengro and his wife took their leave, with many salutations. +“Then you are going?” said I, when Belle and I were left +alone. “Yes,” said Belle, “I am going on a journey; +my affairs compel me.” “But you will return again?” +said I. “Yes,” said Belle, “I shall return once +more.” “Once more,” said I; “what do you +mean by once more? The Petulengros will soon be gone, and will +you abandon me in this place?” “You were alone here,” +said Belle, “before I came, and, I suppose, found it agreeable, +or you would not have stayed in it.” “Yes,” +said I, “that was before I knew you; but having lived with you +here, I should be very loth to live here without you.” “Indeed,” +said Belle, “I did not know that I was of so much consequence +to you. Well, the day is wearing away—I must go and harness +Traveller <!-- page 261--><a name="page261"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 261</span>to +the cart.” “I will do that,” said I, “or +anything else you may wish me. Go and prepare yourself; I will +see after Traveller and the cart.” Belle departed to her +tent, and I set about performing the task I had undertaken. In +about half-an-hour Belle again made her appearance—she was dressed +neatly and plainly. Her hair was no longer in the Roman fashion, +in which Pakomovna had plaited it, but was secured by a comb; she held +a bonnet in her hand. “Is there anything else I can do for +you?” I demanded. “There are two or three bundles +by my tent, which you can put into the cart,” said Belle. +I put the bundles into the cart, and then led Traveller and the cart +up the winding path, to the mouth of the dingle, near which was Mr. +Petulengro’s encampment. Belle followed. At the top, +I delivered the reins into her hands; we looked at each other steadfastly +for some time. Belle then departed and I returned to the dingle, +where, seating myself on my stone, I remained for upwards of an hour +in thought.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII.—THE FESTIVAL—THE GYPSY SONG—PIRAMUS +OF ROME—THE SCOTCHMAN—GYPSY NAMES.</h2> +<p>On the following day there was much feasting amongst the Romany chals +of Mr. Petulengro’s party. Throughout the forenoon the Romany +chies did scarcely anything but cook flesh, and the flesh which they +cooked was swine’s flesh. About two o’clock, the chals +and <!-- page 262--><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 262</span>chies +dividing themselves into various parties, sat down and partook of the +fare, which was partly roasted, partly sodden. I dined that day +with Mr. Petulengro and his wife and family, Ursula, Mr. and Mrs. Chikno, +and Sylvester and his two children. Sylvester, it will be as well +to say, was a widower, and had consequently no one to cook his victuals +for him, supposing he had any, which was not always the case, Sylvester’s +affairs being seldom in a prosperous state. He was noted for his +bad success in trafficking, notwithstanding the many hints which he +received from Jasper, under whose protection he had placed himself, +even as Tawno Chikno had done, who himself, as the reader has heard +on a former occasion, was anything but a wealthy subject, though he +was at all times better off than Sylvester, the Lazarus of the Romany +tribe.</p> +<p>All our party ate with a good appetite, except myself, who, feeling +rather melancholy that day, had little desire to eat. I did not, +like the others, partake of the pork, but got my dinner entirely off +the body of a squirrel which had been shot the day before by a chal +of the name of Piramus, who, besides being a good shot, was celebrated +for his skill in playing on the fiddle. During the dinner a horn +filled with ale passed frequently around, I drank of it more than once, +and felt inspirited by the draughts. The repast concluded, Sylvester +and his children departed to their tent, and Mr. Petulengro, Tawno, +and myself getting up, went and lay down under a shady hedge, where +Mr. Petulengro, lighting his pipe, began to smoke, and <!-- page 263--><a name="page263"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 263</span>where +Tawno presently fell asleep. I was about to fall asleep also, +when I heard the sound of music and song. Piramus was playing +on the fiddle, whilst Mrs. Chikno, who had a voice of her own, was singing +in tones sharp enough, but of great power, a gypsy song:—</p> +<blockquote><p>POISONING THE PORKER.<br /> +<span class="smcap">By Mrs. Chikno</span>.</p> +<p>To mande shoon ye Romany chals<br /> +Who besh in the pus about the yag,<br /> +I’ll pen how we drab the baulo,<br /> +I’ll pen how we drab the baulo.</p> +<p>We jaws to the drab-engro ker,<br /> +Trin horsworth there of drab we lels,<br /> +And when to the swety back we wels<br /> +We pens we’ll drab the baulo,<br /> +We’ll have a drab at a baulo.</p> +<p>And then we kairs the drab opré,<br /> +And then we jaws to the farming ker<br /> +To mang a beti habben,<br /> +A beti poggado habben.</p> +<p>A rinkeno baulo there we dick,<br /> +And then we pens in Romano jib;<br /> +Wust lis odoi opré ye chick,<br /> +And the baulo he will lel lis,<br /> +The baulo he will lel lis.</p> +<p>Coliko, coliko saulo we<br /> +Apopli to the farming ker<br /> +Will wel and mang him mullo,<br /> +Will wel and mang his truppo.</p> +<p>And so we kairs, and so we kairs;<br /> +The baulo in the rarde mers;<br /> +We mang him on the saulo,<br /> +And rig to the tan the baulo.</p> +<p><!-- page 264--><a name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 264</span>And +then we toves the wendror well<br /> +Till sore the wendror iuziou se,<br /> +Till kekkeno drab’s adrey lis<br /> +Till drab there’s kek adrey lis.</p> +<p>And then his truppo well we hatch,<br /> +Kin levinor at the kitchema,<br /> +And have a kosko habben,<br /> +A kosko Romano habben.</p> +<p>The boshom engro kils, he kils,<br /> +The tawnie juva gils, she gils<br /> +A puro Romano gillie,<br /> +Now shoon the Romano gillie.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Which song I had translated in the following manner, in my younger +days, for a lady’s album.</p> +<blockquote><p>Listen to me ye Roman lads, who are seated in the straw +about the fire, and I will tell how we poison the porker, I will tell +how we poison the porker.</p> +<p>We go to the house of the poison monger (<i>i.e.</i> the apothecary), +where we buy three pennies’ worth of bane, and when we return +to our people we say, we will poison the porker; we will try and poison +the porker.</p> +<p>We then make up the poison, and then we take our way to the house +of the farmer, as if to beg a bit of victuals, a little broken victuals.</p> +<p>We see a jolly porker, and then we say in Roman language, “Fling +the bane yonder amongst the dirt, and the porker soon will find it, +the porker soon will find it.”</p> +<p>Early on the morrow, we will return to the farmhouse, and beg the +dead porker, the body of the dead porker.</p> +<p><!-- page 265--><a name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 265</span>And +so we do, even so we do; the porker dieth during the night; on the morrow +we beg the porker, and carry to the tent the porker.</p> +<p>And then we wash the inside well, till all the inside is perfectly +clean, till there’s no bane within it, not a poison grain within +it.</p> +<p>And then we roast the body well, send for ale to the ale-house, and +have a merry banquet, a merry Roman banquet.</p> +<p>The fellow with the fiddle plays, he plays; the little lassie sings, +she sings an ancient Roman ditty; now hear the Roman ditty.</p> +<p>SONG OF THE BROKEN CHASTITY. <a name="citation265"></a><a href="#footnote265">{265}</a><br /> +<span class="smcap">By Ursula</span>.</p> +<p>Penn’d the Romany chi ké laki dye<br /> +“Miry dearie dye mi shom cambri!”<br /> +“And savo kair’d tute cambri,<br /> +Miry dearie chi, miry Romany chi?” <br /> +“O miry dye a boro rye,<br /> +A bovalo rye, a gorgiko rye,<br /> +Sos kistur pré a pellengo grye,<br /> +’Twas yov sos kerdo man cambri.” <br /> +“Tu tawnie vassavie lubbeny,<br /> +Tu chal from miry tan abri;<br /> +Had a Romany chal kair’d tute cambri,<br /> +Then I had penn’d ke tute chie,<br /> +But tu shan a vassavie lubbeny<br /> +With gorgikie rat to be cambri.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 266--><a name="page266"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 266</span>“There’s +some kernel in those songs, brother,” said Mr Petulengro, when +the songs and music were over.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said I, “they are certainly very remarkable +songs. I say, Jasper, I hope you have not been drabbing baulor +<a name="citation266"></a><a href="#footnote266">{266}</a> lately.”</p> +<p>“And suppose we have, brother, what then?”</p> +<p>“Why, it is a very dangerous practice, to say nothing of the +wickedness of it.”</p> +<p>“Necessity has no law, brother.”</p> +<p>“That is true,” said I, “I have always said so, +but you are not necessitous, and should not drab baulor.”</p> +<p>“And who told you we had been drabbing baulor?”</p> +<p>“Why, you have had a banquet of pork, and after the banquet +Mrs. Chikno sang a song about drabbing baulor, so I naturally thought +you might have lately been engaged in such a thing”</p> +<p>“Brother, you occasionally utter a word or two of common sense. +It was natural for you to suppose, after seeing that dinner of pork, +and hearing that song, that we had been drabbing baulor; I will now +tell you <!-- page 267--><a name="page267"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 267</span>that +we have not been doing so. What have you to say to that?”</p> +<p>“That I am very glad of it.”</p> +<p>“Had you tasted that pork, brother, you would have found that +it was sweet and tasty, which balluva that is drabbed can hardly be +expected to be. We have no reason to drab baulor at present, we +have money and credit; but necessity has no law. Our forefathers +occasionally drabbed baulor, some of our people may still do such a +thing, but only from compulsion.”</p> +<p>“I see,” said I; “and at your merry meetings you +sing songs upon the compulsatory deeds of your people, alias their villainous +actions; and, after all, what would the stirring poetry of any nation +be, but for its compulsatory deeds? Look at the poetry of Scotland, +the heroic part, founded almost entirely on the villainous deeds of +the Scotch nation; cow-stealing, for example, which is very little better +than drabbing baulor; whilst the softer part is mostly about the slips +of its females among the broom, so that no upholder of Scotch poetry +could censure Ursula’s song as indelicate, even if he understood +it. What do you think, Jasper?”</p> +<p>“I think, brother, as I before said, that occasionally you +utter a word of common sense. You were talking of the Scotch, +brother; what do you think of a Scotchman finding fault with Romany?”</p> +<p>“A Scotchman finding fault with Romany, Jasper! Oh dear, +but you joke, the thing could never be.”</p> +<p>“Yes, and at Piramus’s fiddle; what do you think of a +Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus’s fiddle?”</p> +<p><!-- page 268--><a name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 268</span>“A +Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus’s fiddle! nonsense, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Do you know what I most dislike, brother?”</p> +<p>“I do not, unless it be the constable, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“It is not the constable, it’s a beggar on horseback, +brother.”</p> +<p>“What do you mean by a beggar on horseback?”</p> +<p>“Why, a scamp, brother, raised above his proper place, who +takes every opportunity of giving himself fine airs. About a week +ago, my people and myself camped on a green by a plantation in the neighbourhood +of a great house. In the evening we were making merry, the girls +were dancing, while Piramus was playing on the fiddle a tune of his +own composing, to which he has given his own name, Piramus of Rome, +and which is much celebrated amongst our people, and from which I have +been told that one of the grand gorgio composers, who once heard it, +has taken several hints. So, as we were making merry, a great +many grand people, lords and ladies, I believe, came from the great +house and looked on, as the girls danced to the tune of Piramus of Rome, +and seemed much pleased; and when the girls had left off dancing, and +Piramus playing, the ladies wanted to have their fortunes told; so I +bade Mikailia Chikno, who can tell a fortune when she pleases better +than any one else, tell them a fortune, and she, being in a good mind, +told them a fortune which pleased them very much. So, after they +had heard their fortunes, one of them asked if any of our women could +sing; and I told them several could, <!-- page 269--><a name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 269</span>more +particularly Leviathan—you know Leviathan, she is not here now, +but some miles distant, she is our best singer, Ursula coming next. +So the lady said she should like to hear Leviathan sing, whereupon Leviathan +sang the Gudlo pesham, <a name="citation269a"></a><a href="#footnote269a">{269a}</a> +and Piramus played the tune of the same name, which, as you know, means +the honeycomb, the song and the tune being well entitled to the name, +being wonderfully sweet. Well, everybody present seemed mighty +well pleased with the song and music, with the exception of one person, +a carroty-haired Scotch body; how he came there I don’t know, +but there he was; and, coming forward, he began in Scotch as broad as +a barn-door to find fault with the music and the song, saying that he +had never heard viler stuff than either. Well, brother, out of +consideration for the civil gentry with whom the fellow had come, I +held my peace for a long time, and in order to get the subject changed, +I said to Mikailia in Romany, you have told the ladies their fortunes, +now tell the gentlemen theirs, quick quick,—pen lende dukkerin. +<a name="citation269b"></a><a href="#footnote269b">{269b}</a> +Well, brother, the Scotchman, I suppose, thinking I was speaking ill +of him, fell into a greater passion than before, and catching hold of +the word dukkerin—‘Dukkerin,’ said he, ‘what’s +dukkerin?’ ‘Dukkerin,’ said I, ‘is fortune, +a man or woman’s destiny; don’t you like the word?’ +‘Word! d’ye ca’ that a word? a bonnie word,’ +said he. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell us what it is in Scotch,’ +said I, ‘in order that we may improve our language by a Scotch +word; <!-- page 270--><a name="page270"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 270</span>a +pal of mine has told me that we have taken a great many words from foreign +lingos.’ ‘Why, then, if that be the case, fellow, +I will tell you; it is e’en “spaeing,”’ said +he, very seriously. ‘Well, then,’ said I, ‘I’ll +keep my own word, which is much the prettiest—spaeing! spaeing! +why, I should be ashamed to make use of the word, it sounds so much +like a certain other word;’ and then I made a face as if I were +unwell. ‘Perhaps it’s Scotch also for that?’ +‘What do you mean by speaking in that guise to a gentleman?’ +said he, ‘you insolent vagabond, without a name or a country.’ +‘There you are mistaken,’ said I, ‘my country is Egypt, +but we ’Gyptians, like you Scotch, are rather fond of travelling; +and as for name—my name is Jasper Petulengro, perhaps you have +a better; what is it?’ ‘Sandy Macraw.’ +At that, brother, the gentlemen burst into a roar of laughter, and all +the ladies tittered.”</p> +<p>“You were rather severe on the Scotchman, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Not at all, brother, and suppose I were, he began first; I +am the civilest man in the world, and never interfere with anybody who +lets me and mine alone. He finds fault with Romany, forsooth! +why, L---d A’mighty, what’s Scotch? He doesn’t +like our songs; what are his own? I understand them as little +as he mine; I have heard one or two of them, and pretty rubbish they +seemed. But the best of the joke is the fellow’s finding +fault with Piramus’s fiddle—a chap from the land of bagpipes +finding fault with Piramus’s fiddle! Why, I’ll back +that fiddle against all the <!-- page 271--><a name="page271"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 271</span>bagpipes +in Scotland, and Piramus against all the bagpipers; for though Piramus +weighs but ten stone, he shall flog a Scotchman of twenty.”</p> +<p>“Scotchmen are never so fat as that,” said I, “unless, +indeed, they have been a long time pensioners of England. I say, +Jasper, what remarkable names your people have!”</p> +<p>“And what pretty names, brother; there’s my own, for +example, Jasper; then there’s Ambrose and Sylvester; then there’s +Culvato, which signifies Claude; then there’s Piramus, that’s +a nice name, brother.”</p> +<p>“Then there’s your wife’s name, Pakomovna; then +there’s Ursula and Morella.”</p> +<p>“Then, brother, there’s Ercilla.”</p> +<p>“Ercilla! the name of the great poet of Spain, how wonderful; +then Leviathan.”</p> +<p>“The name of a ship, brother; Leviathan was named after a ship, +so don’t make a wonder out of her. But there’s Sanpriel +and Synfye.”</p> +<p>“Ay, and Clementina and Lavinia, Camillia and Lydia, Curlanda +and Orlanda; wherever did they get those names?”</p> +<p>“Where did my wife get her necklace, brother?”</p> +<p>“She knows best, Jasper. I hope . . .”</p> +<p>“Come, no hoping! She got it from her grandmother, who +died at the age of a hundred and three, and sleeps in Coggeshall churchyard. +She got it from her mother, who also died very old, and could give no +other account of it than that it had been in the family time out of +mind.”</p> +<p><!-- page 272--><a name="page272"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 272</span>“Whence +could they have got it?”</p> +<p>“Why, perhaps where they got their names, brother. A +gentleman, who had travelled much, once told me that he had seen the +sister of it about the neck of an Indian queen.”</p> +<p>“Some of your names, Jasper, appear to be church names; your +own, for example, and Ambrose, and Sylvester; perhaps you got them from +the Papists, in the times of Popery; but where did you get such a name +as Piramus, a name of Grecian romance? Then some of them appear +to be Slavonian; for example, Mikailia and Pakomovna. I don’t +know much of Slavonian; but . . .”</p> +<p>“What is Slavonian, brother?”</p> +<p>“The family name of certain nations, the principal of which +is the Russian, and from which the word slave is originally derived. +You have heard of the Russians, Jasper?”</p> +<p>“Yes, brother; and seen some. I saw their crallis at +the time of the peace; he was not a bad-looking man for a Russian.”</p> +<p>“By-the-bye, Jasper, I’m half inclined to think that +crallis <a name="citation272"></a><a href="#footnote272">{272}</a> is +a Slavish word. I saw something like it in a lil called ‘Voltaire’s +Life of Charles XII.’ How you should have come by such names +and words is to me incomprehensible.”</p> +<p>“You seem posed, brother.”</p> +<p>“I really know very little about you, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Very little indeed, brother. We know very little about +ourselves; and you know nothing, save what we <!-- page 273--><a name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 273</span>have +told you; and we have now and then told you things about us which are +not exactly true, simply to make a fool of you, brother. You will +say that was wrong; perhaps it was. Well, Sunday will be here +in a day or two, when we will go to church, where possibly we shall +hear a sermon on the disastrous consequences of lying.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV.—THE CHURCH—THE ARISTOCRATICAL PEW—DAYS +OF YORE—THE CLERGYMAN—“IN WHAT WOULD A MAN BE PROFITED?”</h2> +<p>When two days had passed, Sunday came; I breakfasted by myself in +the solitary dingle; and then, having set things a little to rights, +I ascended to Mr. Petulengro’s encampment. I could hear +church-bells ringing around in the distance, appearing to say, “Come +to church, come to church,” as clearly as it was possible for +church-bells to say. I found Mr. Petulengro seated by the door +of his tent, smoking his pipe, in rather an ungenteel undress. +“Well, Jasper,” said I, “are you ready to go to church? +for if you are, I am ready to accompany you.” “I am +not ready, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “nor is my wife; +the church, too, to which we shall go is three miles off; so it is of +no use to think of going there this morning, as the service would be +three-quarters over before we got there; if, however, you are disposed +to go in the afternoon, we are your people.” Thereupon I +returned to my dingle, <!-- page 274--><a name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 274</span>where +I passed several hours in conning the Welsh Bible, which the preacher, +Peter Williams, <a name="citation274"></a><a href="#footnote274">{274}</a> +had given me.</p> +<p>At last I gave over reading, took a slight refreshment, and was about +to emerge from the dingle, when I heard the voice of Mr. Petulengro +calling me. I went up again to the encampment, where I found Mr. +Petulengro, his wife, and Tawno Chikno, ready to proceed to church. +Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro were dressed in Roman fashion, though not in +the full-blown manner in which they had paid their visit to Isopel and +myself. Tawno had on a clean white slop, with a nearly new black +beaver, with very broad rims, and the nap exceedingly long. As +for myself, I was dressed in much the same manner as that in which I +departed from London, having on, in honour of the day, a shirt perfectly +clean, having washed one on purpose for the occasion, with my own hands, +the day before, in the pond of tepid water in which the newts and efts +were in the habit of taking their pleasure. We proceeded for upwards +of a mile, by footpaths through meadows and corn-fields; we crossed +various stiles; at last, passing over one, we found ourselves in a road, +wending along which for a considerable distance, we at last came in +sight of a church, the bells of which had been tolling distinctly in +our ears for some time; before, however, we reached the churchyard the +bells had ceased their melody. It was surrounded by lofty beech-trees +of brilliant green foliage. We entered the gate, Mrs. Petulengro +leading the way, and proceeded to a small door near the east end of +the <!-- page 275--><a name="page275"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 275</span>church. +As we advanced, the sound of singing within the church rose upon our +ears. Arrived at the small door, Mrs. Petulengro opened it and +entered, followed by Tawno Chikno. I myself went last of all, +following Mr. Petulengro, who, before I entered, turned round and, with +a significant nod, advised me to take care how I behaved. The +part of the church <a name="citation275"></a><a href="#footnote275">{275}</a> +which we had entered was the chancel; on one side stood a number of +venerable old men—probably the neighbouring poor—and on +the other a number of poor girls belonging to the village school, dressed +in white gowns and straw bonnets, whom two elegant but simply dressed +young women were superintending. Every voice seemed to be united +in singing a certain anthem, which, notwithstanding it was written neither +by Tate nor Brady, contains some of the sublimest words which were ever +put together, not the worst of which are those which burst on our ears +as we entered.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Every eye shall now behold Him,<br /> + Robed in dreadful majesty;<br /> +Those who set at nought and sold Him,<br /> + Pierced and nailed Him to the tree,<br /> + Deeply wailing,<br /> + Shall the true Messiah see.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Still following Mrs. Petulengro, we proceeded down the chancel and +along the aisle; notwithstanding the singing, I could distinctly hear +as we passed many a <!-- page 276--><a name="page276"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 276</span>voice +whispering, “Here come the gypsies! here come the gypsies!” +I felt rather embarrassed, with a somewhat awkward doubt as to where +we were to sit; none of the occupiers of the pews, who appeared to consist +almost entirely of farmers, with their wives, sons, and daughters, opened +a door to admit us. Mrs. Petulengro, however, appeared to feel +not the least embarrassment, but tripped along the aisle with the greatest +nonchalance. We passed under the pulpit, in which stood the clergyman +in his white surplice, and reached the middle of the church, where we +were confronted by the sexton, dressed in a long blue coat, and holding +in his hand a wand. This functionary motioned towards the lower +end of the church, where were certain benches, partly occupied by poor +people and boys. Mrs. Petulengro, however, with a toss of her +head, directed her course to a magnificent pew, which was unoccupied, +which she opened and entered, followed closely by Tawno Chikno, Mr. +Petulengro, and myself. The sexton did not appear by any means +to approve of the arrangement, and as I stood next the door laid his +finger on my arm, as if to intimate that myself and companions must +quit our aristocratical location. I said nothing, but directed +my eyes to the clergyman, who uttered a short and expressive cough; +the sexton looked at him for a moment, and then, bowing his head, closed +the door—in a moment more the music ceased. I took up a +prayer-book, on which was engraved an earl’s coronet. The +clergyman uttered, “I will arise, and go to my father.” +England’s sublime liturgy had commenced.</p> +<p><!-- page 277--><a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 277</span>Oh, +what feelings came over me on finding myself again in an edifice devoted +to the religion of my country! I had not been in such a place +I cannot tell how long—certainly not for years; and now I had +found my way there again, it appeared as if I had fallen asleep in the +pew of the old church of pretty D[ereham]. I had occasionally +done so when a child, and had suddenly woke up. Yes, surely I +had been asleep and had woken up; but, no! alas, no! I had not +been asleep—at least not in the old church—if I had been +asleep I had been walking in my sleep, struggling, striving, learning, +and unlearning in my sleep. Years had rolled away whilst I had +been asleep—ripe fruit had fallen, green fruit had come on whilst +I had been asleep—how circumstances had altered, and above all +myself, whilst I had been asleep. No, I had not been asleep in +the old church! I was in a pew it is true, but not the pew of +black leather, in which I sometimes fell asleep in days of yore, but +in a strange pew; and then my companions, they were no longer those +of days of yore. I was no longer with my respectable father and +mother, and my dear brother, but with the gypsy cral <a name="citation277"></a><a href="#footnote277">{277}</a> +and his wife, and the gigantic Tawno, the Antinous of the dusky people. +And what was I myself? No longer an innocent child, but a moody +man, bearing in my face, as I knew well, the marks of my strivings and +strugglings, of what I had learned and unlearned; nevertheless, the +general aspect of things brought to my mind what I had felt and seen +of yore. <!-- page 278--><a name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 278</span>There +was difference enough it is true, but still there was a similarity—at +least I thought so,—the church, the clergyman, and the clerk differing +in many respects from those of pretty D . . ., put me strangely in mind +of them; and then the words!—by-the-bye, was it not the magic +of the words which brought the dear enchanting past so powerfully before +the mind of Lavengro? for the words were the same sonorous words of +high import which had first made an impression on his childish ear in +the old church of pretty Dereham.</p> +<p>The liturgy was now over, during the reading of which my companions +behaved in a most unexceptional manner, sitting down and rising up when +other people sat down and rose, and holding in their hands prayer-books +which they found in the pew, into which they stared intently, though +I observed that, with the exception of Mrs. Petulengro, who knew how +to read a little, they held the books by the top, and not the bottom, +as is the usual way. The clergyman now ascended the pulpit, arrayed +in his black gown. The congregation composed themselves to attention, +as did also my companions, who fixed their eyes upon the clergyman with +a certain strange immovable stare, which I believe to be peculiar to +their race. The clergyman gave out his text, and began to preach. +He was a tall, gentlemanly man, seemingly between fifty and sixty, with +greyish hair; his features were very handsome, but with a somewhat melancholy +cast: the tones of his voice were rich and noble, but also with somewhat +of melancholy in them. The text which he gave out was the following +<!-- page 279--><a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 279</span>one: +“In what would a man be profited, provided he gained the whole +world, and lost his own soul?”</p> +<p>And on this text the clergyman preached long and well: he did not +read his sermon, but spoke it extempore; his doing so rather surprised +and offended me at first; I was not used to such a style of preaching +in a church devoted to the religion of my country. I compared +it within my mind with the style of preaching used by the high-church +rector in the old church of pretty D . . ., and I thought to myself +it was very different, and being very different I did not like it, and +I thought to myself how scandalised the people of D . . . would have +been had they heard it, and I figured to myself how indignant the high-church +clerk would have been had any clergyman got up in the church of D . +. . and preached in such a manner. Did it not savour strongly +of dissent, methodism, and similar low stuff? Surely it did; why, +the Methodist I had heard preach on the heath above the old city, preached +in the same manner—at least he preached extempore; ay, and something +like the present clergyman, for the Methodist spoke very zealously and +with great feeling, and so did the present clergyman; so I, of course, +felt rather offended with the clergyman for speaking with zeal and feeling. +However, long before the sermon was over I forgot the offence which +I had taken, and listened to the sermon with much admiration, for the +eloquence and powerful reasoning with which it abounded.</p> +<p>Oh, how eloquent he was, when he talked on the <!-- page 280--><a name="page280"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 280</span>inestimable +value of a man’s soul, which he said endured for ever, whilst +his body, as every one knew, lasted at most for a very contemptible +period of time; and how forcibly he reasoned on the folly of a man, +who, for the sake of gaining the whole world—a thing, he said, +which provided he gained he could only possess for a part of the time, +during which his perishable body existed—should lose his soul, +that is, cause that precious deathless portion of him to suffer indescribable +misery time without end.</p> +<p>There was one part of his sermon which struck me in a very particular +manner: he said, “That there were some people who gained something +in return for their souls; if they did not get the whole world, they +got a part of it—lands, wealth, honour, or renown; mere trifles, +he allowed, in comparison with the value of a man’s soul, which +is destined either to enjoy delight, or suffer tribulation time without +end; but which, in the eyes of the worldly, had a certain value, and +which afforded a certain pleasure and satisfaction. But there +were also others who lost their souls, and got nothing for them—neither +lands, wealth, renown, nor consideration, who were poor outcasts, and +despised by everybody. My friends,” he added, “if +the man is a fool who barters his soul for the whole world, what a fool +he must be who barters his soul for nothing!”</p> +<p>The eyes of the clergyman, as he uttered these words, wandered around +the whole congregation; and when he had concluded them, the eyes of +the whole congregation were turned upon my companions and myself.</p> +<h2><!-- page 281--><a name="page281"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 281</span>CHAPTER +XXV.—RETURN FROM CHURCH—THE CUCKOO AND GYPSY—SPIRITUAL +DISCOURSE.</h2> +<p>The service over, my companions and myself returned towards the encampment +by the way we came. Some of the humble part of the congregation +laughed and joked at us as we passed. Mr. Petulengro and his wife, +however, returned their laughs and jokes with interest. As for +Tawno and myself, we said nothing: Tawno, like most handsome fellows, +having very little to say for himself at any time; and myself, though +not handsome, not being particularly skilful at repartee. Some +boys followed us for a considerable time, making all kinds of observations +about gypsies; but as we walked at a great pace, we gradually left them +behind, and at last lost sight of them. Mrs. Petulengro and Tawno +Chikno walked together, even as they had come; whilst Mr. Petulengro +and myself followed at a little distance.</p> +<p>“That was a very fine preacher we heard,” said I to Mr. +Petulengro, after we had crossed the stile into the fields.</p> +<p>“Very fine, indeed, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “he +is talked of, far and wide, for his sermons; folks say that there is +scarcely another like him in the whole of England.”</p> +<p>“He looks rather melancholy, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“He lost his wife several years ago, who, they say, <!-- page 282--><a name="page282"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 282</span>was +one of the most beautiful women ever seen. They say that it was +grief for her loss that made him come out mighty strong as a preacher; +for, though he was a clergyman, he was never heard of in the pulpit +before he lost his wife; since then the whole country has rung with +the preaching of the clergyman of M . . ., as they call him. Those +two nice young gentlewomen, whom you saw with the female childer, are +his daughters.”</p> +<p>“You seem to know all about him, Jasper. Did you ever +hear him preach before?”</p> +<p>“Never, brother; but he has frequently been to our tent, and +his daughters too, and given us tracts; for he is one of the people +they call Evangelicals, who give folks tracts which they cannot read.”</p> +<p>“You should learn to read, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“We have no time, brother.”</p> +<p>“Are you not frequently idle?”</p> +<p>“Never, brother; when we are not engaged in our traffic, we +are engaged in taking our relaxation: so we have no time to learn.”</p> +<p>“You really should make an effort. If you were disposed +to learn to read, I would endeavour to assist you. You would be +all the better for knowing how to read.”</p> +<p>“In what way, brother?”</p> +<p>“Why, you could read the Scriptures, and, by so doing, learn +your duty towards your fellow-creatures.”</p> +<p>“We know that already, brother; the constables and justices +have contrived to knock that tolerably into our heads.”</p> +<p><!-- page 283--><a name="page283"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 283</span>“Yet +you frequently break the laws.”</p> +<p>“So, I believe, do now and then those who know how to read, +brother.”</p> +<p>“Very true, Jasper; but you really ought to learn to read, +as, by so doing, you might learn your duty towards yourselves: and your +chief duty is to take care of your own souls; did not the preacher say, +‘In what is a man profited, provided he gain the whole world’?”</p> +<p>“We have not much of the world, brother.”</p> +<p>“Very little indeed, Jasper. Did you not observe how +the eyes of the whole congregation were turned towards our pew when +the preacher said, ‘There are some people who lose their souls, +and get nothing in exchange; who are outcast, despised, and miserable?’ +Now, was not what he said quite applicable to the gypsies?”</p> +<p>“We are not miserable, brother.”</p> +<p>“Well, then, you ought to be, Jasper. Have you an inch +of ground of your own? Are you of the least use? Are you +not spoken ill of by everybody? What’s a gypsy?”</p> +<p>“What’s the bird noising yonder, brother?”</p> +<p>“The bird! Oh, that’s the cuckoo tolling; but what +has the cuckoo to do with the matter?”</p> +<p>“We’ll see, brother; what’s the cuckoo?”</p> +<p>“What is it? you know as much about it as myself, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Isn’t it a kind of roguish, chaffing bird, brother?”</p> +<p>“I believe it is, Jasper.”</p> +<p><!-- page 284--><a name="page284"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 284</span>“Nobody +knows whence it comes, brother?”</p> +<p>“I believe not, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Very poor, brother, not a nest of its own?”</p> +<p>“So they say, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“With every person’s bad word, brother?”</p> +<p>“Yes, Jasper, every person is mocking it.”</p> +<p>“Tolerably merry, brother?”</p> +<p>“Yes, tolerably merry, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Of no use at all, brother?”</p> +<p>“None whatever, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“You would be glad to get rid of the cuckoos, brother?”</p> +<p>“Why, not exactly, Jasper; the cuckoo is a pleasant, funny +bird, and its presence and voice give a great charm to the green trees +and fields; no, I can’t say I wish exactly to get rid of the cuckoo.”</p> +<p>“Well, brother, what’s a Romany chal?”</p> +<p>“You must answer that question yourself, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“A roguish, chaffing fellow, a’n’t he, brother?”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Of no use at all, brother?”</p> +<p>“Just so, Jasper; I see . . .”</p> +<p>“Something very much like a cuckoo, brother?”</p> +<p>“I see what you are after, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“You would like to get rid of us, wouldn’t you?”</p> +<p>“Why, no, not exactly.”</p> +<p>“We are no ornament to the green lanes in spring and summer +time, are we, brother? and the voices of our chies, with their cukkerin +and dukkerin, don’t help to make them pleasant?”</p> +<p><!-- page 285--><a name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 285</span>“I +see what you are at, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“You would wish to turn the cuckoos into barn-door fowls, wouldn’t +you?”</p> +<p>“Can’t say I should, Jasper, whatever some people might +wish.”</p> +<p>“And the chals and chies into radical weavers and factory wenches, +hey, brother?”</p> +<p>“Can’t say that I should, Jasper. You are certainly +a picturesque people, and in many respects an ornament both to town +and country; painting and lil writing too are under great obligations +to you. What pretty pictures are made out of your campings and +groupings, and what pretty books have been written in which gypsies, +or at least creatures intended to represent gypsies, have been the principal +figures! I think if we were without you, we should begin to miss +you.”</p> +<p>“Just as you would the cuckoos, if they were all converted +into barn-door fowls. I tell you what, brother, frequently as +I have sat under a hedge in spring or summer time, and heard the cuckoo, +I have thought that we chals and cuckoos are alike in many respects, +but especially in character. Everybody speaks ill of us both, +and everybody is glad to see both of us again.”</p> +<p>“Yes, Jasper, but there is some difference between men and +cuckoos; men have souls, Jasper!”</p> +<p>“And why not cuckoos, brother?”</p> +<p>“You should not talk so, Jasper; what you say is little short +of blasphemy. How should a bird have a soul?”</p> +<p><!-- page 286--><a name="page286"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 286</span>“And +how should a man?”</p> +<p>“Oh, we know very well that a man has a soul.”</p> +<p>“How do you know it?”</p> +<p>“We know very well.”</p> +<p>“Would you take your oath of it, brother—your bodily +oath?”</p> +<p>“Why, I think I might, Jasper!”</p> +<p>“Did you ever see the soul, brother?”</p> +<p>“No, I never saw it.”</p> +<p>“Then how could you swear to it? A pretty figure you +would make in a court of justice, to swear to a thing which you never +saw. Hold up your head, fellow. When and where did you see +it? Now upon your oath, fellow, do you mean to say that this Roman +stole the donkey’s foal? Oh, there’s no one for cross-questioning +like Counsellor P . . . Our people when they are in a hobble always +like to employ him, though he is somewhat dear. Now, brother, +how can you get over the ‘upon your oath, fellow, will you say +that you have a soul?’”</p> +<p>“Well, we will take no oath on the subject; but you yourself +believe in the soul. I have heard you say that you believe in +dukkerin; now what is dukkerin <a name="citation286"></a><a href="#footnote286">{286}</a> +but the soul science?”</p> +<p>“When did I say that I believed in it?”</p> +<p>“Why, after that fight, when you pointed to the bloody mark +in the cloud, whilst he you wot of was galloping in the barouche to +the old town, amidst the rain-cataracts, the thunder, and flame of heaven.”</p> +<p><!-- page 287--><a name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 287</span>“I +have some kind of remembrance of it, brother.”</p> +<p>“Then, again, I heard you say that the dook of Abershaw rode +every night on horseback down the wooded hill.”</p> +<p>“I say, brother, what a wonderful memory you have!”</p> +<p>“I wish I had not, Jasper, but I can’t help it; it is +my misfortune.”</p> +<p>“Misfortune! well, perhaps it is; at any rate it is very ungenteel +to have such a memory. I have heard my wife say that to show you +have a long memory looks very vulgar; and that you can’t give +a greater proof of gentility than by forgetting a thing as soon as possible—more +especially a promise, or an acquaintance when he happens to be shabby. +Well, brother, I don’t deny that I may have said that I believe +in dukkerin, and in Abershaw’s dook, which you say is his soul; +but what I believe one moment, or say I believe, don’t be certain +that I shall believe the next, or say I do.”</p> +<p>“Indeed, Jasper, I heard you say on a previous occasion, on +quoting a piece of song, that when a man dies he is cast into the earth, +and there’s an end of him.”</p> +<p>“I did, did I? Lor’, what a memory you have, brother! +But you are not sure that I hold that opinion now.”</p> +<p>“Certainly not, Jasper. Indeed, after such a sermon as +we have been hearing, I should be very shocked if you held such an opinion.”</p> +<p><!-- page 288--><a name="page288"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 288</span>“However, +brother, don’t be sure I do not, however shocking such an opinion +may be to you.”</p> +<p>“What an incomprehensible people you are, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“We are rather so, brother; indeed, we have posed wiser heads +than yours before now.”</p> +<p>“You seem to care for so little, and yet you rove about a distinct +race.”</p> +<p>“I say, brother!”</p> +<p>“Yes, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“What do you think of our women?”</p> +<p>“They have certainly very singular names, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Names! Lavengro! But, brother, if you had been +as fond of things as of names, you would never have been a pal of ours.”</p> +<p>“What do you mean, Jasper?”</p> +<p>“A’n’t they rum animals?”</p> +<p>“They have tongues of their own, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Did you ever feel their teeth and nails, brother?”</p> +<p>“Never, Jasper, save Mrs. Herne’s. <a name="citation288"></a><a href="#footnote288">{288}</a> +I have always been very civil to them, so . . .”</p> +<p>“They let you alone. I say, brother, some part of the +secret is in them.”</p> +<p>“They seem rather flighty, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay, brother!”</p> +<p>“Rather fond of loose discourse!”</p> +<p>“Rather so, brother.”</p> +<p>“Can you always trust them, Jasper?”</p> +<p>“We never watch them, brother.”</p> +<p>“Can they always trust you?”</p> +<p><!-- page 289--><a name="page289"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 289</span>“Not +quite so well as we can them. However, we get on very well together, +except Mikailia and her husband; but Mikailia is a cripple, and is married +to the beauty of the world, so she may be expected to be jealous—though +he would not part with her for a duchess, no more than I would part +with my rawnie, nor any other chal with his.”</p> +<p>“Ay, but would not the chi part with the chal for a duke, Jasper?”</p> +<p>“My Pakomovna gave up the duke for me, brother.”</p> +<p>“But she occasionally talks of him, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Yes, brother, but Pakomovna was born on a common not far from +the sign of the gammon.”</p> +<p>“Gammon of bacon, I suppose.”</p> +<p>“Yes, brother; but gammon likewise means . . .”</p> +<p>“I know it does, Jasper; it means fun, ridicule, jest; it is +an ancient Norse word, and is found in the Edda.”</p> +<p>“Lor’, brother! how learned in lils you are!”</p> +<p>“Many words of Norse are to be found in our vulgar sayings, +Jasper; for example—in that particularly vulgar saying of ours, +‘Your mother is up,’ <a name="citation289"></a><a href="#footnote289">{289}</a> +there’s a noble Norse word; mother, there, meaning not the female +who bore us, but rage and choler, as I discovered by reading the Sagas, +Jasper.”</p> +<p><!-- page 290--><a name="page290"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 290</span>“Lor’, +brother! how book-learned you be.”</p> +<p>“Indifferently so, Jasper. Then you think you might trust +your wife with the duke?”</p> +<p>“I think I could, brother, or even with yourself.”</p> +<p>“Myself, Jasper! Oh, I never troubled my head about your +wife; but I suppose there have been love affairs between gorgios <a name="citation290"></a><a href="#footnote290">{290}</a> +and Romany chies. Why, novels are stuffed with such matters; and +then even one of your own songs says so—the song which Ursula +was singing the other afternoon.”</p> +<p>“That is somewhat of an old song, brother, and is sung by the +chies as a warning at our solemn festivals.”</p> +<p>“Well! but there’s your sister-in-law, Ursula, herself, +Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Ursula, herself, brother?”</p> +<p>“You were talking of my having her, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Well, brother, why didn’t you have her?”</p> +<p>“Would she have had me?”</p> +<p>“Of course, brother. You are so much of a Roman, and +speak Romany so remarkably well.”</p> +<p>“Poor thing! she looks very innocent!”</p> +<p>“Remarkably so, brother! However, though not born on +the same common with my wife, she knows a thing or two of Roman matters.”</p> +<p>“I should like to ask her a question or two, Jasper, in connection +with that song.”</p> +<p>“You can do no better, brother. Here we are at the camp. +After tea, take Ursula under a hedge, and ask her a question or two +in connection with that song.”</p> +<h2><!-- page 291--><a name="page291"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 291</span>CHAPTER +XXVI.—SUNDAY EVENING—URSULA—ACTION AT LAW—MERIDIANA +MARRIED ALREADY.</h2> +<p>I took tea that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro and Ursula, +<a name="citation291"></a><a href="#footnote291">{291}</a> outside of +their tent. Tawno was not present, being engaged with his wife +in his own tabernacle; Sylvester was there, however, lolling listlessly +upon the ground. As I looked upon this man, I thought him one +of the most disagreeable fellows I had ever seen. His features +were ugly, and, moreover, as dark as pepper; and, besides being dark, +his skin was dirty. As for his dress, it was torn and sordid. +His chest was broad, and his arms seemed powerful; but, upon the whole, +he looked a very caitiff. “I am sorry that man has lost +his wife,” thought I; “for I am sure he <!-- page 292--><a name="page292"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 292</span>will +never get another.” What surprises me is, that he ever found +a woman disposed to unite her lot with his!</p> +<p>After tea I got up and strolled about the field. My thoughts +were upon Isopel Berners. I wondered where she was, and how long +she would stay away. At length becoming tired and listless, I +determined to return to the dingle, and resume the reading of the Bible +at the place where I had left off. “What better could I +do,” methought, “on a Sunday evening?” I was +then near the wood which surrounded the dingle, but at that side which +was farthest from the encampment, which stood near the entrance. +Suddenly, on turning round the southern corner of the copse, which surrounded +the dingle, I perceived Ursula seated under a thorn-bush. I thought +I never saw her look prettier than then, dressed as she was, in her +Sunday’s best.</p> +<p><!-- page 293--><a name="page293"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 293</span>“Good +evening, Ursula,” said I; “I little thought to have the +pleasure of seeing you here.”</p> +<p>“Nor would you, brother,” said Ursula, “had not +Jasper told me that you had been talking about me, and wanted to speak +to me under a hedge; so hearing that, I watched your motions, and came +here and sat down.”</p> +<p>“I was thinking of going to my quarters in the dingle, to read +the Bible, Ursula, but . . .”</p> +<p>“Oh, pray then, go to your quarters, brother, and read the +Miduveleskoe lil; <a name="citation293"></a><a href="#footnote293">{293}</a> +you can speak to me under a hedge some other time.”</p> +<p>“I think I will sit down with you, Ursula; for, after all, +reading godly books in dingles at eve is rather sombre work. Yes, +I think I will sit down with you;” and I sat down by her side.</p> +<p>“Well, brother, now you have sat down with me under the hedge, +what have you to say to me?”</p> +<p>“Why, I hardly know, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“Not know, brother; a pretty fellow you to ask young women +to come and sit with you under hedges, and, when they come, not know +what to say to them.”</p> +<p>“Oh! ah! I remember; do you know, Ursula, that I take +a great interest in you?”</p> +<p>“Thank ye, brother; kind of you, at any rate.”</p> +<p>“You must be exposed to a great many temptations, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“A great many indeed, brother. It is hard to see fine +things, such as shawls, gold watches, and chains in the shops, behind +the big glasses, and to know <!-- page 294--><a name="page294"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 294</span>that +they are not intended for one. Many’s the time I have been +tempted to make a dash at them; but I bethought myself that by so doing +I should cut my hands, besides being almost certain of being grabbed +and sent across the gull’s bath to the foreign country.”</p> +<p>“Then you think gold and fine things temptations, Ursula?”</p> +<p>“Of course, brother, very great temptations; don’t you +think them so?”</p> +<p>“Can’t say I do, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“Then more fool you, brother; but have the kindness to tell +me what you would call a temptation?”</p> +<p>“Why, for example, the hope of honour and renown, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“The hope of honour and renown! very good, brother: but I tell +you one thing, that unless you have money in your pocket, and good broadcloth +on your back, you are not likely to obtain much honour and—what +do you call it? amongst the gorgios, to say nothing of the Romany chals.”</p> +<p>“I should have thought, Ursula, that the Romany chals, roaming +about the world as they do, free and independent, were above being led +by such trifles.”</p> +<p>“Then you know nothing of the gypsies, brother; no people on +earth are fonder of those trifles, as you call them, than the Romany +chals, or more disposed to respect those who have them.”</p> +<p>“Then money and fine clothes would induce you to do anything, +Ursula?”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay, brother, anything.”</p> +<p><!-- page 295--><a name="page295"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 295</span>“To +chore, <a name="citation295a"></a><a href="#footnote295a">{295a}</a> +Ursula?”</p> +<p>“Like enough, brother; gypsies have been transported before +now for choring.”</p> +<p>“To hokkawar?” <a name="citation295b"></a><a href="#footnote295b">{295b}</a></p> +<p>“Ay, ay; I was telling dukkerin only yesterday, brother.”</p> +<p>“In fact, to break the law in everything?”</p> +<p>“Who knows, brother, who knows? as I said before, gold and +fine clothes are great temptations.”</p> +<p>“Well, Ursula, I am sorry for it, I should never have thought +you so depraved.”</p> +<p>“Indeed, brother.”</p> +<p>“To think that I am seated by one who is willing to—to +. . .”</p> +<p>“Go on, brother.”</p> +<p>“To play the thief.”</p> +<p>“Go on, brother.”</p> +<p>“The liar.”</p> +<p>“Go on, brother.”</p> +<p>“The—the . . .”</p> +<p>“Go on, brother.”</p> +<p>“The—the lubbeny.” <a name="citation295c"></a><a href="#footnote295c">{295c}</a></p> +<p>“The what, brother?” said Ursula, starting from her seat.</p> +<p>“Why, the lubbeny; don’t you . . .”</p> +<p>“I tell you what, brother,” said Ursula, looking somewhat +pale, and speaking very low, “if I had only something in my hand, +I would do you a mischief.”</p> +<p><!-- page 296--><a name="page296"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 296</span>“Why, +what is the matter, Ursula?” said I; “how have I offended +you?”</p> +<p>“How have you offended me? Why, didn’t you insinivate +just now that I was ready to play the—the . . .”</p> +<p>“Go on, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“The—the . . . I’ll not say it; but I only wish +I had something in my hand.”</p> +<p>“If I have offended, Ursula, I am very sorry for it; any offence +I may have given you was from want of understanding you. Come, +pray be seated, I have much to question you about—to talk to you +about.”</p> +<p>“Seated, not I! It was only just now that you gave me +to understand that you was ashamed to be seated by me, a thief, a liar.”</p> +<p>“Well, did you not almost give me to understand that you were +both, Ursula?”</p> +<p>“I don’t much care being called a thief and a liar,” +said Ursula; “a person may be a liar and a thief, and yet a very +honest woman, but . . .”</p> +<p>“Well, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“I tell you what, brother, if you ever sinivate again that +I could be the third thing, so help me duvel! <a name="citation296"></a><a href="#footnote296">{296}</a> +I’ll do you a mischief. By my God I will!”</p> +<p>“Well, Ursula, I assure you that I shall sinivate, as you call +it, nothing of the kind about you. I have no doubt, from what +you have said, that you are a very paragon of virtue—a perfect +Lucretia; but . . .”</p> +<p>“My name is Ursula, brother, and not Lucretia: <!-- page 297--><a name="page297"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 297</span>Lucretia +is not of our family, but one of the Bucklands; she travels about Oxfordshire; +yet I am as good as she any day.”</p> +<p>“Lucretia! how odd! Where could she have got that name? +Well, I make no doubt, Ursula, that you are quite as good as she, and +she of her namesake of ancient Rome; but there is a mystery in this +same virtue, Ursula, which I cannot fathom! how a thief and a liar should +be able, or indeed willing, to preserve her virtue is what I don’t +understand. You confess that you are very fond of gold. +Now, how is it that you don’t barter your virtue for gold sometimes? +I am a philosopher, Ursula, and like to know everything. You must +be every now and then exposed to great temptation, Ursula: for you are +of a beauty calculated to captivate all hearts. Come, sit down +and tell me how you are enabled to resist such temptation as gold and +fine clothes?”</p> +<p>“Well, brother,” said Ursula, “as you say you mean +no harm, I will sit down beside you, and enter into discourse with you; +but I will uphold that you are the coolest hand that I ever came nigh, +and say the coolest things.”</p> +<p>And thereupon Ursula sat down by my side.</p> +<p>“Well, Ursula, we will, if you please, discourse on the subject +of your temptations. I suppose that you travel very much about, +and show yourself in all kinds of places?”</p> +<p>“In all kinds, brother; I travels, as you say, very much, attends +fairs and races, and enters booths and <!-- page 298--><a name="page298"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 298</span>public-houses, +where I tells fortunes, and sometimes dances and sings.”</p> +<p>“And do not people often address you in a very free manner?”</p> +<p>“Frequently, brother; and I give them tolerably free answers.”</p> +<p>“Do people ever offer to make you presents? I mean presents +of value, such as . . .”</p> +<p>“Silk handkerchiefs, shawls, and trinkets; very frequently, +brother.”</p> +<p>“And what do you do, Ursula?”</p> +<p>“I take what people offers me, brother, and stows it away as +soon as I can.”</p> +<p>“Well, but don’t people expect something for their presents? +I don’t mean dukkerin, dancing, and the like; but such a moderate +and innocent thing as a choomer, <a name="citation298"></a><a href="#footnote298">{298}</a> +Ursula?”</p> +<p>“Innocent thing, do you call it, brother?”</p> +<p>“The world calls it so, Ursula. Well, do the people who +give you the fine things never expect a choomer in return?”</p> +<p>“Very frequently, brother.”</p> +<p>“And do you ever grant it?”</p> +<p>“Never, brother.”</p> +<p>“How do you avoid it?”</p> +<p>“I gets away as soon as possible, brother. If they follows +me, I tries to baffle them, by means of jests and laughter; and if they +persist, I uses bad and terrible language, of which I have plenty in +store.”</p> +<p><!-- page 299--><a name="page299"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 299</span>“But +if your terrible language has no effect?”</p> +<p>“Then I screams for the constable, and if he comes not, I uses +my teeth and nails.”</p> +<p>“And are they always sufficient?”</p> +<p>“I have only had to use them twice, brother; but then I found +them sufficient.”</p> +<p>“But suppose the person who followed you was highly agreeable, +Ursula? A handsome young officer of local militia, for example, +all dressed in Lincoln green, would you still refuse him the choomer?”</p> +<p>“We makes no difference, brother! the daughters of the gypsy-father +makes no difference; and, what’s more, sees none.”</p> +<p>“Well, Ursula, the world will hardly give you credit for such +indifference.”</p> +<p>“What cares we for the world, brother! we are not of the world.”</p> +<p>“But your fathers, brothers, and uncles give you credit I suppose, +Ursula.”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay, brother, our fathers, brothers, and cokos <a name="citation299a"></a><a href="#footnote299a">{299a}</a> +gives us all manner of credit; for example, I am telling lies and dukkerin +in a public-house where my batu <a name="citation299b"></a><a href="#footnote299b">{299b}</a> +or coko—perhaps both—are playing on the fiddle; well, my +batu and my coko beholds me amongst the public-house crew, talking nonsense +and hearing nonsense; but they are under no apprehension; and presently +they sees the good-looking officer of militia, in his greens and Lincolns, +get up and give me a wink, and I go out with him abroad, into the dark +<!-- page 300--><a name="page300"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 300</span>night +perhaps; well, my batu and coko goes on fiddling, just as if I were +six miles off asleep in the tent, and not out in the dark street with +the local officer, with his Lincolns and his greens.”</p> +<p>“They know they can trust you, Ursula?”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay, brother; and, what’s more, I knows I can trust +myself.”</p> +<p>“So you would merely go out to make a fool of him, Ursula?”</p> +<p>“Merely go out to make a fool of him, brother, I assure you.”</p> +<p>“But such proceedings really have an odd look, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“Amongst gorgios, very so, brother.”</p> +<p>“Well, it must be rather unpleasant to lose one’s character +even amongst gorgios, Ursula; and suppose the officer, out of revenge +for being tricked and duped by you, were to say of you the thing that +is not, were to meet you on the race-course the next day, and boast +of receiving favours which he never had, amidst a knot of jeering militia-men, +how would you proceed, Ursula? would you not be abashed?”</p> +<p>“By no means, brother; I should bring my action of law against +him.”</p> +<p>“Your action at law, Ursula?”</p> +<p>“Yes, brother; I should give a whistle, whereupon all one’s +cokos and batus, and all my near and distant relations, would leave +their fiddling, dukkerin, and horse-dealing, and come flocking about +me. ‘What’s the matter, Ursula?’ says my coko. +‘Nothing at all,’ I <!-- page 301--><a name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 301</span>replies, +‘save and except that gorgio, in his greens and his Lincolns, +says that I have played the . . . with him.’ ‘Oho, +he does, Ursula,’ says my coko; ‘try your action of law +against him, my lamb,’ and he puts something privily into my hands; +whereupon I goes close up to the grinning gorgio, and staring him in +the face, with my head pushed forward, I cries out: ‘You say I +did what was wrong with you last night when I was out with you abroad?’ +‘Yes,’ says the local officer, ‘I says you did,’ +looking down all the time. ‘You are a liar,’ says +I, and forthwith I breaks his head with the stick which I holds behind +me, and which my coko has conveyed privily into my hand.”</p> +<p>“And this is your action at law, Ursula?”</p> +<p>“Yes, brother, this is my action at club-law.”</p> +<p>“And would your breaking the fellow’s head quite clear +you of all suspicion in the eyes of your batus, cokos, <a name="citation301"></a><a href="#footnote301">{301}</a> +and what not?”</p> +<p>“They would never suspect me at all, brother, because they +would know that I would never condescend to be over intimate with a +gorgio; the breaking the head would be merely intended to justify Ursula +in the eyes of the gorgios.”</p> +<p>“And would it clear you in their eyes?”</p> +<p>“Would it not, brother? When they saw the blood running +down from the fellow’s cracked poll on his greens and Lincolns, +they would be quite satisfied; why, the fellow would not be able to +show his face at fair or merry-making for a year and three quarters.”</p> +<p><!-- page 302--><a name="page302"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 302</span>“Did +you ever try it, Ursula?”</p> +<p>“Can’t say I ever did, brother, but it would do.”</p> +<p>“And how did you ever learn such a method of proceeding?”</p> +<p>“Why, ’tis advised by gypsy liri, <a name="citation302a"></a><a href="#footnote302a">{302a}</a> +brother. It’s part of our way of settling difficulties amongst +ourselves; for example, if a young Roman were to say the thing which +is not respecting Ursula and himself, Ursula would call a great meeting +of the people, who would all sit down in a ring, the young fellow amongst +them; a coko would then put a stick in Ursula’s hand, who would +then get up and go to the young fellow, and say, ‘Did I play the +. . . with you?’ and were he to say ‘Yes,’ she would +crack his head before the eyes of all.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “Ursula, I was bred an apprentice +to gorgio law, and of course ought to stand up for it, whenever I conscientiously +can, but I must say the gypsy manner of bringing an action for defamation +is much less tedious, and far more satisfactory, than the gorgiko one. +I wish you now to clear up a certain point which is rather mysterious +to me. You say that for a Romany chi to do what is unseemly with +a gorgio is quite out of the question, yet only the other day I heard +you singing a song in which a Romany chi confesses herself to be cambri +<a name="citation302b"></a><a href="#footnote302b">{302b}</a> by a grand +gorgious gentleman.”</p> +<p>“A sad let down,” said Ursula.</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “sad or not, there’s the +song that <!-- page 303--><a name="page303"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 303</span>speaks +of the thing, which you give me to understand is not?”</p> +<p>“Well, if the thing ever was,” said Ursula, “it +was a long time ago, and perhaps, after all, not true.”</p> +<p>“Then why do you sing the song?”</p> +<p>“I tell you, brother: we sings the song now and then to be +a warning to ourselves to have as little to do as possible in the way +of acquaintance with the gorgios; and a warning it is. You see +how the young woman in the song was driven out of her tent by her mother, +with all kinds of disgrace and bad language; but you don’t know +that she was afterwards buried alive by her cokos and pals, in an uninhabited +place. The song doesn’t say it, but the story says it; for +there is a story about it, though, as I said before, it was a long time +ago, and perhaps, after all, wasn’t true.”</p> +<p>“But if such a thing were to happen at present, would the cokos +and pals bury the girl alive?”</p> +<p>“I can’t say what they would do,” said Ursula, +“I suppose they are not so strict as they were long ago; at any +rate she would be driven from the tan, <a name="citation303"></a><a href="#footnote303">{303}</a> +and avoided by all her family and relations as a gorgio’s acquaintance, +so that, perhaps, at last, she would be glad if they would bury her +alive.”</p> +<p>“Well, I can conceive that there would be an objection on the +part of the cokos and batus that a Romany chi should form an improper +acquaintance with a gorgio, but I should think that the batus and cokos +could <!-- page 304--><a name="page304"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 304</span>hardly +object to the chi’s entering into the honourable estate of wedlock +with a gorgio.”</p> +<p>Ursula was silent.</p> +<p>“Marriage is an honourable estate, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“Well, brother, suppose it be?”</p> +<p>“I don’t see why a Romany chi should object to enter +into the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio.”</p> +<p>“You don’t, brother; don’t you?”</p> +<p>“No,” said I, “and, moreover, I am aware, notwithstanding +your evasion, Ursula, that marriages and connections now and then occur +between gorgios and Romany chies; the result of which is the mixed breed, +called half-and-half, which is at present travelling about England, +and to which the Flaming Tinman belongs, otherwise called Anselo Herne.”</p> +<p>“As for the half-and-halfs,” said Ursula, “they +are a bad set; and there is not a worse blackguard in England than Anselo +Herne.”</p> +<p>“All what you say may be very true, Ursula, but you admit that +there are half-and-halfs.”</p> +<p>“The more’s the pity, brother.”</p> +<p>“Pity or not, you admit the fact; but how do you account for +it?”</p> +<p>“How do I account for it? why, I will tell you, by the break +up of a Roman family, brother,—the father of a small family dies, +and perhaps the mother; and the poor children are left behind; sometimes +they are gathered up by their relations, and sometimes, if they have +none, by charitable Romans, who bring <!-- page 305--><a name="page305"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 305</span>them +up in the observance of gypsy law; but sometimes they are not so lucky, +and falls into the company of gorgios, trampers, and basket-makers, +who live in caravans, with whom they take up, and so . . . I hate to +talk of the matter, brother; but so comes this race of the half-and-halfs.”</p> +<p>“Then you mean to say, Ursula, that no Romany chi, unless compelled +by hard necessity, would have anything to do with a gorgio.”</p> +<p>“We are not over fond of gorgios, brother, and we hates basket-makers +and folks that live in caravans.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said I, “suppose a gorgio, who is not a +basket-maker, a fine handsome gorgious gentleman, who lives in a fine +house . . .”</p> +<p>“We are not fond of houses, brother. I never slept in +a house in my life.”</p> +<p>“But would not plenty of money induce you?”</p> +<p>“I hate houses, brother, and those who live in them.”</p> +<p>“Well, suppose such a person were willing to resign his fine +house, and, for love of you, to adopt gypsy law, speak Romany, and live +in a tan, <a name="citation305"></a><a href="#footnote305">{305}</a> +would you have nothing to say to him?”</p> +<p>“Bringing plenty of money with him, brother?”</p> +<p>“Well, bringing plenty of money with him, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“Well, brother, suppose you produce your man; where is he?”</p> +<p>“I was merely supposing such a person, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“Then you don’t know of such a person, brother?”</p> +<p>“Why, no, Ursula; why do you ask?”</p> +<p><!-- page 306--><a name="page306"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 306</span>“Because, +brother, I was almost beginning to think that you meant yourself.”</p> +<p>“Myself, Ursula! I have no fine house to resign; nor +have I money. Moreover, Ursula, though I have a great regard for +you, and though I consider you very handsome, quite as handsome, indeed, +as Meridiana in . . .”</p> +<p>“Meridiana! where did you meet with her?” said Ursula, +with a toss of her head.</p> +<p>“Why, in old Pulci’s . . .”</p> +<p>“At old Fulcher’s! that’s not true brother. +Meridiana is a Borzlam, and travels with her own people, and not with +old Fulcher, <a name="citation306"></a><a href="#footnote306">{306}</a> +who is a gorgio and a basket-maker.”</p> +<p>“I was not speaking of old Fulcher, but Pulci, a great Italian +writer, who lived many hundred years ago, and who, in his poem called +the ‘Morgante Maggiore,’ speaks of Meridiana, the daughter +of . . .”</p> +<p>“Old Carus Borzlam,” said Ursula; “but if the fellow +you mention lived so many hundred years ago, how, in the name of wonder, +could he know anything of Meridiana?”</p> +<p>“The wonder, Ursula, is, how your people could ever have got +hold of that name, and similar ones. The Meridiana of Pulci was +not the daughter of old Carus Borzlam, but of Caradoro, a great pagan +king of the East, who, being besieged in his capital by Manfredonio, +<!-- page 307--><a name="page307"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 307</span>another +mighty pagan king, who wished to obtain possession of his daughter, +who had refused him, was relieved in his distress by certain paladins +of Charlemagne, with one of whom, Oliver, his daughter Meridiana fell +in love.”</p> +<p>“I see,” said Ursula, “that it must have been altogether +a different person, for I am sure that Meridiana Borzlam would never +have fallen in love with Oliver. Oliver! why, that is the name +of the curo-mengro who lost the fight near the chong gav, <a name="citation307"></a><a href="#footnote307">{307}</a> +the day of the great tempest, when I got wet through. No, no! +Meridiana Borzlam would never have so far forgot her blood as to take +up with Tom Oliver.”</p> +<p>“I was not talking of that Oliver, Ursula, but of Oliver, peer +of France, and paladin of Charlemagne, with whom Meridiana, daughter +of Caradore, fell in love, and for whose sake she renounced her religion +and became a Christian, and finally ingravidata, or cambri, by him:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“E nacquene un figliuol, dice la storia,<br /> +Che dette à Carlo-man poi gran vittoria.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>which means . . .”</p> +<p>“I don’t want to know what it means,” said Ursula; +“no good, I’m sure. Well, if the Meridiana of Charles’s +wain’s pal was no handsomer than Meridiana Borzlam, she was no +great catch, brother; for though I am by no means given to vanity, I +think myself better to look <!-- page 308--><a name="page308"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 308</span>at +than she, though I will say she is no lubbeny, and would scorn . . .”</p> +<p>“I make no doubt she would, Ursula, and I make no doubt that +you are much handsomer than she, or even the Meridiana of Oliver. +What I was about to say, before you interrupted me, is this, that though +I have a great regard for you, and highly admire you, it is only in +a brotherly way, and . . .”</p> +<p>“And you had nothing better to say to me,” said Ursula, +“when you wanted to talk to me beneath a hedge, than that you +liked me in a brotherly way! well, I declare . . .”</p> +<p>“You seem disappointed, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“Disappointed, brother! not I.”</p> +<p>“You were just now saying that you disliked gorgios, so, of +course, could only wish that I, who am a gorgio, should like you in +a brotherly way; I wished to have a conversation with you beneath a +hedge, but only with the view of procuring from you some information +respecting the song which you sung the other day, and the conduct of +Roman females, which has always struck me as being highly unaccountable, +so, if you thought anything else . . .”</p> +<p>“What else should I expect from a picker-up of old words, brother? +Bah! I dislike a picker-up of old words worse than a picker-up +of old rags.”</p> +<p>“Don’t be angry, Ursula, I feel a great interest in you; +you are very handsome, and very clever; indeed, with your beauty and +cleverness, I only wonder that you have not long since been married.”</p> +<p><!-- page 309--><a name="page309"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 309</span>“You +do, do you, brother?”</p> +<p>“Yes. However, keep up your spirits, Ursula, you are +not much past the prime of youth, so . . .”</p> +<p>“Not much past the prime of youth! Don’t be uncivil, +brother; I was only twenty-two last month.”</p> +<p>“Don’t be offended, Ursula, but twenty-two is twenty-two, +or I should rather say, that twenty-two in a woman is more than twenty-six +in a man. You are still very beautiful, but I advise you to accept +the first offer that’s made to you.”</p> +<p>“Thank you, brother, but your advice comes rather late; I accepted +the first offer that was made me five years ago.”</p> +<p>“You married five years ago, Ursula! is it possible?”</p> +<p>“Quite possible, brother, I assure you.”</p> +<p>“And how came I to know nothing about it?”</p> +<p>“How comes it that you don’t know many thousand things +about the Romans, brother? Do you think they tell you all their +affairs?”</p> +<p>“Married, Ursula, married! well, I declare!”</p> +<p>“You seem disappointed, brother.”</p> +<p>“Disappointed! Oh, no! not at all; but Jasper, only a +few weeks ago, told me that you were not married; and, indeed, almost +gave me to understand that you would be very glad to get a husband.”</p> +<p>“And you believed him? I’ll tell you, brother, +for your instruction, that there is not in the whole world a greater +liar than Jasper Petulengro.”</p> +<p>“I am sorry to hear it, Ursula; but with respect <!-- page 310--><a name="page310"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 310</span>to +him you married—who might he be? A gorgio, or a Romany chal?”</p> +<p>“Gorgio, or Romany chal? Do you think I would ever condescend +to a gorgio? It was a Camomescro, brother, a Lovell, a distant +relation of my own.”</p> +<p>“And where is he! and what became of him? Have you any +family?”</p> +<p>“Don’t think I am going to tell you all my history, brother; +and, to tell you the truth, I am tired of sitting under hedges with +you, talking nonsense. I shall go to my house.”</p> +<p>“Do sit a little longer, sister Ursula. I most heartily +congratulate you on your marriage. But where is this same Lovell? +I have never seen him: I should wish to congratulate him too. +You are quite as handsome as the Meridiana of Pulci, Ursula, ay, or +the Despina of Ricciardetto. Ricciardetto, Ursula, is a poem written +by one Fortiguerra, about ninety years ago, in imitation of the Morgante +of Pulci. It treats of the wars of Charlemagne and his Paladins +with various barbarous nations, who came to besiege Paris. Despina +was the daughter and heiress of Scricca, King of Cafria; she was the +beloved of Ricciardetto, and was beautiful as an angel; but I make no +doubt you are quite as handsome as she.”</p> +<p>“Brother,” said Ursula—but the reply of Ursula +I reserve for another chapter, the present having attained to rather +an uncommon length, for which, however, the importance of the matter +discussed is a sufficient apology.</p> +<h2><!-- page 311--><a name="page311"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 311</span>CHAPTER +XXVII.—URSULA’S TALE—THE PATTERAN—THE DEEP WATER—SECOND +HUSBAND.</h2> +<p>“Brother,” said Ursula, plucking a dandelion which grew +at her feet. “I have always said that a more civil and pleasant-spoken +person than yourself can’t be found. I have a great regard +for you and your learning, and am willing to do you any pleasure in +the way of words or conversation. Mine is not a very happy story, +but as you wish to hear it, it is quite at your service. Launcelot +Lovell made me an offer, as you call it, and we were married in Roman +fashion; that is, we gave each other our right hands, and promised to +be true to each other. We lived together two years, travelling +sometimes by ourselves, sometimes with our relations; I bore him two +children, both of which were still-born, partly, I believe, from the +fatigue I underwent in running about the country telling dukkerin when +I was not exactly in a state to do so, and partly from the kicks and +blows which my husband Launcelot was in the habit of giving me every +night, provided I came home with less than five shillings, which it +is sometimes impossible to make in the country, provided no fair or +merry-making is going on. At the end of two years my husband, +Launcelot, whistled a horse from a farmer’s field, and sold it +for forty pounds; and for that horse he was taken, put in prison, tried, +and condemned to be sent to the other country for life. Two <!-- page 312--><a name="page312"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 312</span>days +before he was to be sent away, I got leave to see him in the prison, +and in the presence of the turnkey I gave him a thin cake of gingerbread, +in which there was a dainty saw which could cut through iron. +I then took on wonderfully, turned my eyes inside out, fell down in +a seeming fit, and was carried out of the prison. That same night +my husband sawed his irons off, cut through the bars of his window, +and dropping down a height of fifty feet, lighted on his legs, and came +and joined me on a heath where I was camped alone. We were just +getting things ready to be off, when we heard people coming, and sure +enough they were runners after my husband, Launcelot Lovell; for his +escape had been discovered within a quarter of an hour after he had +got away. My husband, without bidding me farewell, set off at +full speed, and they after him, but they could not take him, and so +they came back and took me, and shook me, and threatened me, and had +me before the poknees, <a name="citation312"></a><a href="#footnote312">{312}</a> +who shook his head at me, and threatened me in order to make me discover +where my husband was, but I said I did not know, which was true enough; +not that I would have told him if I had. So at last the poknees +and the runners, not being able to make anything out of me, were obliged +to let me go, and I went in search of my husband. I wandered about +with my cart for several days in the direction in which I saw him run +off, with my eyes bent on the ground, but could see no marks of him; +at last, coming to four cross roads, I saw my husband’s patteran.”</p> +<p><!-- page 313--><a name="page313"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 313</span>“You +saw your husband’s patteran?”</p> +<p>“Yes, brother. Do you know what patteran means?”</p> +<p>“Of course, Ursula; the gypsy trail, the handful of grass which +the gypsies strew in the roads as they travel, to give information to +any of their companions who may be behind, as to the route they have +taken. The gypsy patteran has always had a strange interest for +me, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“Like enough, brother; but what does patteran mean?”</p> +<p>“Why, the gypsy trail, formed as I told you before.”</p> +<p>“And you know nothing more about patteran, brother?”</p> +<p>“Nothing at all, Ursula; do you?”</p> +<p>“What’s the name for the leaf of a tree, brother?”</p> +<p>“I don’t know,” said I; “it’s odd enough +that I have asked that question of a dozen Romany chals and chies, and +they always told me that they did not know.”</p> +<p>“No more they did, brother; there’s only one person in +England that knows, and that’s myself—the name for a leaf +is patteran. Now there are two that knows it—the other is +yourself.”</p> +<p>“Dear me, Ursula, how very strange! I am much obliged +to you. I think I never saw you look so pretty as you do now; +but who told you?”</p> +<p>“My mother, Mrs. Herne, told it me one day, brother, when she +was in a good humour, which she very seldom was, and no one has a better +right to know than yourself, <!-- page 314--><a name="page314"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 314</span>as +she hated you mortally: it was one day when you had been asking our +company what was the word for a leaf, and nobody could tell you, that +she took me aside and told me, for she was in a good humour, and triumphed +in seeing you balked. She told me the word for leaf was patteran, +which our people use now for trail, having forgotten the true meaning. +She said that the trail was called patteran, because the gypsies of +old were in the habit of making the marks with the leaves and branches +of trees, placed in a certain manner. She said that nobody knew +it but herself, who was one of the old sort, and begged me never to +tell the word to any one but him I should marry; and to be particularly +cautious never to let you know it, whom she hated. Well, brother, +perhaps I have done wrong to tell you; but, as I said before, I likes +you, and am always ready to do your pleasure in words and conversation; +my mother, moreover, is dead and gone, and, poor thing, will never know +anything about the matter. So, when I married, I told my husband +about the patteran, and we were in the habit of making our private trail +with leaves and branches of trees, which none of the other gypsy people +did; so, when I saw my husband’s patteran, I knew it at once, +and I followed it upwards of two hundred miles towards the north; and +then I came to a deep, awful-looking water, with an overhanging bank, +and on the bank I found the patteran, which directed me to proceed along +the bank towards the east; and I followed my husband’s patteran +towards the east, and before I had gone half a mile, I came to a place +where I saw the bank had <!-- page 315--><a name="page315"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 315</span>given +way, and fallen into the deep water. Without paying much heed, +I passed on, and presently came to a public-house, not far from the +water, and I entered the public-house to get a little beer, and perhaps +to tell a dukkerin, for I saw a great many people about the door; and, +when I entered, I found there was what they calls an inquest being held +upon a body in that house, and the jury had just risen to go and look +at the body; and being a woman, and having a curiosity, I thought I +would go with them, and so I did; and no sooner did I see the body than +I knew it to be my husband’s; it was much swelled and altered, +but I knew it partly by the clothes, and partly by a mark on the forehead, +and I cried out, ‘It is my husband’s body,’ and I +fell down in a fit, and the fit that time, brother, was not a seeming +one.”</p> +<p>“Dear me,” I, “how terrible! but tell me, Ursula, +how did your husband come by his death?”</p> +<p>“The bank, overhanging the deep water, gave way under him, +brother, and he was drowned; for, like most of our people, he could +not swim, or only a little. The body, after it had been in the +water a long time, came up of itself, and was found floating. +Well, brother, when the people of the neighbourhood found that I was +the wife of the drowned man, they were very kind to me, and made a subscription +for me, with which, after having seen my husband buried, I returned +the way I had come, till I met Jasper and his people, and with them +I have travelled ever since: I was very melancholy for a long time, +I assure you, brother; for the <!-- page 316--><a name="page316"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 316</span>death +of my husband preyed very much upon my mind.”</p> +<p>“His death was certainly a very shocking one, Ursula; but, +really, if he had died a natural one, you could scarcely have regretted +it, for he appears to have treated you barbarously.”</p> +<p>“Women must bear, brother; and, barring that he kicked and +beat me, and drove me out to tell dukkerin when I could scarcely stand, +he was not a bad husband. A man, by gypsy law, brother, is allowed +to kick and beat his wife, and to bury her alive, if he thinks proper. +I am a gypsy, and have nothing to say against the law.”</p> +<p>“But what has Mikailia Chikno to say about it?”</p> +<p>“She is a cripple, brother, the only cripple amongst the Roman +people: so she is allowed to do and say as she pleases. Moreover, +her husband does not think fit to kick or beat her, though it is my +opinion she would like him all the better if he were occasionally to +do so, and threaten to bury her alive; at any rate, she would treat +him better, and respect him more.”</p> +<p>“Your sister does not seem to stand much in awe of Jasper Petulengro, +Ursula.”</p> +<p>“Let the matters of my sister and Jasper Petulengro alone, +brother; you must travel in their company some time before you can understand +them; they are a strange two, up to all kind of chaffing: but two more +regular Romans don’t breathe, and I’ll tell you, for your +instruction, that there isn’t a better mare-breaker in England +that Jasper Petulengro, if you can manage Miss Isopel Berners as well +as . . .”</p> +<p><!-- page 317--><a name="page317"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 317</span>“Isopel +Berners,” said I, “how came you to think of her?”</p> +<p>“How should I but think of her, brother, living as she does +with you in Mumper’s dingle, and travelling about with you; you +will have, brother, more difficulty to manage her, than Jasper has to +manage my sister Pakomovna. I should have mentioned her before, +only I wanted to know what you had to say to me; and when we got into +discourse, I forgot her. I say, brother, let me tell you your +dukkerin, with respect to her, you will never . . .”</p> +<p>“I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula.”</p> +<p>“Do let me tell you your dukkerin, brother, you will never +manage . . .”</p> +<p>“I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula, in connection with Isopel +Berners. Moreover, it is Sunday, we will change the subject; it +is surprising to me that, after all you have undergone, you should still +look so beautiful. I suppose you do not think of marrying again, +Ursula?”</p> +<p>“No, brother, one husband at a time is quite enough for any +reasonable mort; especially such a good husband as I have got.”</p> +<p>“Such a good husband! why, I thought you told me your husband +was drowned?”</p> +<p>“Yes, brother, my first husband was.”</p> +<p>“And have you a second?”</p> +<p>“To be sure, brother.”</p> +<p>“And who is he, in the name of wonder?”</p> +<p>“Who is he? why Sylvester, to be sure.”</p> +<p><!-- page 318--><a name="page318"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 318</span>“I +do assure you, Ursula, that I feel disposed to be angry with you; such +a handsome young woman as yourself to take up with such a nasty pepper-faced +good-for-nothing . . .”</p> +<p>“I won’t hear my husband abused, brother; so you had +better say no more.”</p> +<p>“Why, is he not the Lazarus of the gypsies? has he a penny +of his own, Ursula?”</p> +<p>“Then the more his want, brother, of a clever chi like me to +take care of him and his childer. I tell you what, brother, I +will chore, <a name="citation318"></a><a href="#footnote318">{318}</a> +if necessary, and tell dukkerin for Sylvester, if even so heavy as scarcely +to be able to stand. You call him lazy; you would not think him +lazy if you were in a ring with him; he is a proper man with his hands: +Jasper is going to back him for twenty pounds against Slammocks of the +Chong gav, the brother of Roarer and Bell-metal; he says he has no doubt +that he will win.”</p> +<p>“Well, if you like him, I, of course, can have no objection. +Have you been long married?”</p> +<p>“About a fortnight, brother; that dinner, the other day, when +I sang the song, was given in celebration of the wedding.”</p> +<p>“Were you married in a church, Ursula?”</p> +<p>“We were not, brother; none but gorgios, cripples, and lubbenys +are ever married in a church; we took each other’s words. +Brother, I have been with you near three hours beneath this hedge. +I will go to my husband.”</p> +<p><!-- page 319--><a name="page319"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 319</span>“Does +he know that you are here?”</p> +<p>“He does brother.”</p> +<p>“And is he satisfied?”</p> +<p>“Satisfied! of course. Lor’, you gorgios! +Brother, I go to my husband and my house.” And, thereupon, +Ursula rose and departed.</p> +<p>After waiting a little time I also arose; it was now dark, and I +thought I could do no better than betake myself to the dingle; at the +entrance of it I found Mr. Petulengro. “Well brother,” +said he, “what kind of conversation have you and Ursula had beneath +the hedge?”</p> +<p>“If you wished to hear what we were talking about, you should +have come and sat down beside us; you knew where we were.”</p> +<p>“Well, brother, I did much the same, for I went and sat down +behind you.”</p> +<p>“Behind the hedge, Jasper?”</p> +<p>“Behind the hedge, brother.”</p> +<p>“And heard all our conversation?”</p> +<p>“Every word, brother; and a rum conversation it was.”</p> +<p>“’Tis an old saying, Jasper, that listeners never hear +any good of themselves; perhaps you heard the epithet that Ursula bestowed +upon you.”</p> +<p>“If, by epitaph, you mean that she called me a liar, I did, +brother, and she was not much wrong, for I certainly do not always stick +exactly to truth; you, however, have not much to complain of me.”</p> +<p>“You deceived me about Ursula, giving me to understand she +was not married.”</p> +<p><!-- page 320--><a name="page320"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 320</span>“She +was not married when I told you so, brother; that is, not to Sylvester; +nor was I aware that she was going to marry him. I once thought +you had a kind of regard for her, and I am sure she had as much for +you as a Romany chi can have for a gorgio. I half expected to +have heard you make love to her behind the hedge, but I begin to think +you care for nothing in this world but old words and strange stories. +Lor’, to take a young woman under a hedge, and talk to her as +you did to Ursula; and yet you got everything out of her that you wanted, +with your gammon about old Fulcher and Meridiana. You are a cunning +one, brother.”</p> +<p>“There you are mistaken, Jasper. I am not cunning. +If people think I am, it is because, being made up of art themselves, +simplicity of character is a puzzle to them. Your women are certainly +extraordinary creatures, Jasper.”</p> +<p>“Didn’t I say they were rum animals? Brother, we +Romans shall always stick together as long as they stick fast to us.”</p> +<p>“Do you think they always will, Jasper?”</p> +<p>“Can’t say, brother; nothing lasts for ever. Romany +chies are Romany chies still, though not exactly what they were sixty +years ago. My wife, though a rum one, is not Mrs. Herne, brother. +I think she is rather fond of Frenchmen and French discourse. +I tell you what, brother, if ever gypsyism breaks up, it will be owing +to our chies having been bitten by that mad puppy they calls gentility.”</p> +<h2><!-- page 321--><a name="page321"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 321</span>CHAPTER +XXVIII.—THE DINGLE AT NIGHT—THE TWO SIDES OF THE QUESTION—ROMAN +FEMALES—FILLING THE KETTLE—THE DREAM—THE TALL FIGURE.</h2> +<p>I descended to the bottom of the dingle. It was nearly involved +in obscurity. To dissipate the feeling of melancholy which came +over my mind, I resolved to kindle a fire; and having heaped dry sticks +upon my hearth, and added a billet or two, I struck a light and soon +produced a blaze. Sitting down, I fixed my eyes upon the blaze, +and soon fell into a deep meditation. I thought of the events +of the day, the scene at church, and what I had heard at church, the +danger of losing one’s soul, the doubts of Jasper Petulengro as +to whether one had a soul. I thought over the various arguments +which I had either heard, or which had come spontaneously to my mind, +for or against the probability of a state of future existence. +They appeared to me to be tolerably evenly balanced. I then thought +that it was at all events taking the safest part to conclude that there +was a soul. It would be a terrible thing, after having passed +one’s life in the disbelief of the existence of a soul, to wake +up after death a soul, and to find one’s self a lost soul. +Yes, methought I would come to the conclusion that one has a soul. +Choosing the safe side, however, appeared to me to be playing rather +a dastardly part. I had never been an admirer of people who chose +the <!-- page 322--><a name="page322"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 322</span>safe +side in everything; indeed I had always entertained a thorough contempt +for them. Surely it would be showing more manhood to adopt the +dangerous side, that of disbelief; I almost resolved to do so—but +yet in a question of so much importance, I ought not to be guided by +vanity. The question was not which was the safe, but the true +side? yet how was I to know which was the true side? Then I thought +of the Bible—which I had been reading in the morning—that +spoke of the soul and a future state; but was the Bible true? +I had heard learned and moral men say that it was true, but I had also +heard learned and moral men say that it was not: how was I to decide? +Still that balance of probabilities! If I could but see the way +of truth, I would follow it, if necessary, upon hands and knees; on +that I was determined; but I could not see it. Feeling my brain +begin to turn round, I resolved to think of something else; and forthwith +began to think of what had passed between Ursula and myself in our discourse +beneath the hedge.</p> +<p>I mused deeply on what she had told me as to the virtue of the females +of her race. How singular that virtue must be which was kept pure +and immaculate by the possessor, whilst indulging in habits of falsehood +and dishonesty. I had always thought the gypsy females extraordinary +beings. I had often wondered at them, their dress, their manner +of speaking, and, not least, at their names; but, until the present +day, I had been unacquainted with the most extraordinary <!-- page 323--><a name="page323"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 323</span>point +connected with them. How came they possessed of this extraordinary +virtue? was it because they were thievish? I remembered that an +ancient thief-taker, who had retired from his useful calling, and who +frequently visited the office of my master at law, the respectable S. +. ., who had the management of his property—I remembered to have +heard this worthy, with whom I occasionally held discourse, philosophic +and profound, when he and I chanced to be alone together in the office, +say that all first-rate thieves were sober, and of well-regulated morals, +their bodily passions being kept in abeyance by their love of gain; +but this axiom could scarcely hold good with respect to these women—however +thievish they might be, they did care for something besides gain: they +cared for their husbands. If they did thieve, they merely thieved +for their husbands; and though, perhaps, some of them were vain, they +merely prized their beauty because it gave them favour in the eyes of +their husbands. Whatever the husbands were—and Jasper had +almost insinuated that the males occasionally allowed themselves some +latitude—they appeared to be as faithful to their husbands as +the ancient Roman matrons were to theirs. Roman matrons! and, +after all, might not these be in reality Roman matrons? They called +themselves Romans; might not they be the descendants of the old Roman +matrons? Might not they be of the same blood as Lucretia? +And were not many of their strange names—Lucretia amongst the +rest—handed down to them from old <!-- page 324--><a name="page324"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 324</span>Rome? +It is true their language was not that of old Rome; it was not, however, +altogether different from it. After all, the ancient Romans might +be a tribe of these people, who settled down and founded a village with +the tilts of carts, which by degrees, and the influx of other people, +became the grand city of the world. I liked the idea of the grand +city of the world owing its origin to a people who had been in the habit +of carrying their houses in their carts. Why, after all, should +not the Romans of history be a branch of these Romans? There were +several points of similarity between them; if Roman matrons were chaste, +both men and women were thieves. Old Rome was the thief of the +world; yet still there were difficulties to be removed before I could +persuade myself that the old Romans and my Romans were identical; and +in trying to remove these difficulties, I felt my brain once more beginning +to turn, and in haste took up another subject of meditation, and that +was the patteran, and what Ursula had told me about it.</p> +<p>I had always entertained a strange interest for that sign by which +in their wanderings the Romanese gave to those of their people who came +behind intimation as to the direction which they took; but it now inspired +me with greater interest than ever,—now that I had learned that +the proper meaning of it was the leaves of trees. I had, as I +had said in my dialogue with Ursula, been very eager to learn the word +for leaf in the Romanian language, but had never learned it till this +day; so patteran signified leaf, the leaf of a tree; <!-- page 325--><a name="page325"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 325</span>and +no one at present knew that but myself and Ursula, who had learned it +from Mrs. Herne, the last, it was said, of the old stock; and then I +thought what strange people the gypsies must have been in the old time. +They were sufficiently strange at present, but they must have been far +stranger of old; they must have been a more peculiar people—their +language must have been more perfect—and they must have had a +greater stock of strange secrets. I almost wished that I had lived +some two or three hundred years ago, that I might have observed these +people when they were yet stranger than at present. I wondered +whether I could have introduced myself to their company at that period, +whether I should have been so fortunate as to meet such a strange, half-malicious, +half good-humoured being as Jasper, who would have instructed me in +the language, then more deserving of note than at present. What +might I not have done with that language, had I known it in its purity? +Why, I might have written books in it; yet those who spoke it would +hardly have admitted me to their society at that period, when they kept +more to themselves. Yet I thought that I might possibly have gained +their confidence, and have wandered about with them, and learned their +language, and all their strange ways, and then—and then—and +a sigh rose from the depth of my breast; for I began to think, “Supposing +I had accomplished all this, what would have been the profit of it? +and in what would all this wild gypsy dream have terminated?”</p> +<p>Then rose another sigh, yet more profound, for I <!-- page 326--><a name="page326"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 326</span>began +to think, “What was likely to be the profit of my present way +of life; the living in dingles, making pony and donkey shoes, conversing +with gypsy-women under hedges, and extracting from them their odd secrets?” +What was likely to be the profit of such a kind of life, even should +it continue for a length of time?—a supposition not very probable, +for I was earning nothing to support me, and the funds with which I +had entered upon this life were gradually disappearing. I was +living, it is true, not unpleasantly, enjoying the healthy air of heaven; +but, upon the whole, was I not sadly misspending my time? Surely +I was; and, as I looked back, it appeared to me that I had always been +doing so. What had been the profit of the tongues which I had +learned? had they ever assisted me in the day of hunger? No, no! +it appeared to me that I had always misspent my time, save in one instance, +when by a desperate effort I had collected all the powers of my imagination, +and written the “Life of Joseph Sell” <a name="citation326"></a><a href="#footnote326">{326}</a>; +but even when I wrote the Life of Sell, was I not in a false position? +Provided I had not misspent my time, would it have been necessary to +make that effort, which, after all, had only enabled me to leave London, +and wander about the country for a time? But could I, taking <!-- page 327--><a name="page327"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 327</span>all +circumstances into consideration, have done better than I had? +With my peculiar temperament and ideas, could I have pursued with advantage +the profession to which my respectable parents had endeavoured to bring +me up? It appeared to me that I could not, and that the hand of +necessity had guided me from my earliest years, until the present night +in which I found myself seated in the dingle, staring on the brands +of the fire. But ceasing to think of the past which, as irrecoverably +gone, it was useless to regret, even were there cause to regret it, +what should I do in future? Should I write another book like the +“Life of Joseph Sell,” take it to London, and offer it to +a publisher? But when I reflected on the grisly sufferings which +I had undergone whilst engaged in writing the “Life of Sell,” +I shrank from the idea of a similar attempt; moreover, I doubted whether +I possessed the power to write a similar work—whether the materials +for the life of another Sell lurked within the recesses of my brain? +Had I not better become in reality what I had hitherto been merely playing +at—a tinker or a gypsy? But I soon saw that I was not fitted +to become either in reality. It was much more agreeable to play +the gypsy or the tinker, than to become either in reality. I had +seen enough of gypsying and tinkering to be convinced of that. +All of a sudden the idea of tilling the soil came into my head; tilling +the soil was a healthful and noble pursuit! but my idea of tilling the +soil had no connection with Britain; for I could only expect to till +the soil in Britain as a serf. <!-- page 328--><a name="page328"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 328</span>I +thought of tilling it in America, in which it was said there was plenty +of wild, unclaimed land, of which any one, who chose to clear it of +its trees, might take possession. I figured myself in America, +in an immense forest, clearing the land destined, by my exertions, to +become a fruitful and smiling plain. Methought I heard the crash +of the huge trees as they fell beneath my axe; and then I bethought +me that a man was intended to marry—I ought to marry; and if I +married, where was I likely to be more happy as a husband and a father +than in America, engaged in tilling the ground? I fancied myself +in America, engaged in tilling the ground, assisted by an enormous progeny. +Well, why not marry, and go and till the ground in America? I +was young, and youth was the time to marry in, and to labour in. +I had the use of all my faculties; my eyes, it is true, were rather +dull from early study, and from writing the “Life of Joseph Sell”; +but I could see tolerably well with them, and they were not bleared. +I felt my arms, and thighs, and teeth—they were strong and sound +enough; so now was the time to labour, to marry, eat strong flesh, and +beget strong children—the power of doing all this would pass away +with youth, which was terribly transitory. I bethought me that +a time would come when my eyes would be bleared, and, perhaps, sightless; +my arms and thighs strengthless and sapless; when my teeth would shake +in my jaws, even supposing they did not drop out. No going a wooing +then—no labouring—no eating strong flesh, and begetting +lusty children then; and I bethought me how, <!-- page 329--><a name="page329"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 329</span>when +all this should be, 1 should bewail the days of my youth as misspent, +provided I had not in them founded for myself a home, and begotten strong +children to take care of me in the days when I could not take care of +myself; and thinking of these things, I became sadder and sadder, and +stared vacantly upon the fire till my eyes closed in a doze.</p> +<p>I continued dozing over the fire, until rousing myself I perceived +that the brands were nearly consumed, and I thought of retiring for +the night. I arose, and was about to enter my tent, when a thought +struck me. “Suppose,” thought I, “that Isopel +Berners should return in the midst of the night, how dark and dreary +would the dingle appear without a fire! truly, I will keep up the fire, +and I will do more; I have no board to spread for her, but I will fill +the kettle, and heat it, so that if she comes, I may be able to welcome +her with a cup of tea, for I know she loves tea.” Thereupon, +I piled more wood upon the fire, and soon succeeded in producing a better +blaze than before; then, taking the kettle, I set out for the spring. +On arriving at the mouth of the dingle, which fronted the east, I perceived +that Charles’s wain was nearly opposite to it, high above in the +heavens, by which I knew that the night was tolerably well advanced. +The gypsy encampment lay before me; all was hushed and still within +it, and its inmates appeared to be locked in slumber; as I advanced, +however, the dogs, which were fastened outside the tents, growled and +barked; but presently recognising me, they were again silent, <!-- page 330--><a name="page330"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 330</span>some +of them wagging their tails. As I drew near a particular tent, +I heard a female voice say—“Some one is coming!” and, +as I was about to pass it, the cloth which formed the door was suddenly +lifted up, and a black head and part of a huge naked body protruded. +It was the head and upper part of the giant Tawno, who, according to +the fashion of gypsy men, lay next the door, wrapped in his blanket; +the blanket had, however, fallen off, and the starlight shone clear +on his athletic tawny body, and was reflected from his large staring +eyes.</p> +<p>“It is only I, Tawno,” said I, “going to fill the +kettle, as it is possible that Miss Berners may arrive this night.” +“Kos-ko,” <a name="citation330"></a><a href="#footnote330">{330}</a> +drawled out Tawno, and replaced the curtain. “Good, do you +call it?” said the sharp voice of his wife; “there is no +good in the matter; if that young chap were not living with the rawnee +in the illegal and uncertificated line, he would not be getting up in +the middle of the night to fill her kettles.” Passing on, +I proceeded to the spring, where I filled the kettle, and then returned +to the dingle.</p> +<p>Placing the kettle upon the fire, I watched it till it began to boil; +then removing it from the top of the brands, I placed it close beside +the fire, and leaving it simmering, I retired to my tent; where, having +taken off my shoes, and a few of my garments, I lay down on my palliasse, +and was not long in falling asleep. I believe I slept soundly +for some time, thinking and <!-- page 331--><a name="page331"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 331</span>dreaming +of nothing: suddenly, however, my sleep became disturbed, and the subject +of the patterans began to occupy my brain. I imagined that I saw +Ursula tracing her husband, Launcelot Lovell, by means of his patterans; +I imagined that she had considerable difficulty in doing so; that she +was occasionally interrupted by parish beadles and constables, who asked +her whither she was travelling, to whom she gave various answers. +Presently methought that, as she was passing by a farm-yard, two fierce +and savage dogs flew at her; I was in great trouble, I remember, and +wished to assist her, but could not, for though I seemed to see her, +I was still at a distance: and now it appeared that she had escaped +from the dogs, and was proceeding with her cart along a gravelly path +which traversed a wild moor; I could hear the wheels grating amidst +sand and gravel. The next moment I was awake, and found myself +sitting up in my tent; there was a glimmer of light through the canvas +caused by the fire; a feeling of dread came over me, which was perhaps +natural, on starting suddenly from one’s sleep in that wild lone +place; I half imagined that some one was nigh the tent; the idea made +me rather uncomfortable, and to dissipate it I lifted up the canvas +of the door and peeped out, and, lo! I had an indistinct view of a tall +figure standing by the tent. “Who is that?” said I, +whilst I felt my blood rush to my heart. “It is I,” +said the voice of Isopel Berners; “you little expected me, I dare +say; well, sleep on, I do not wish to disturb you.” “But +I was expecting you,” said I, recovering <!-- page 332--><a name="page332"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 332</span>myself, +“as you may see by the fire and the kettle. I will be with +you in a moment.”</p> +<p>Putting on in haste the articles of dress which I had flung off, +I came out of the tent, and addressing myself to Isopel, who was standing +beside her cart, I said—“Just as I was about to retire to +rest I thought it possible that you might come to-night, and got everything +in readiness for you. Now, sit down by the fire whilst I lead +the donkey and cart to the place where you stay; I will unharness the +animal, and presently come and join you.” “I need +not trouble you,” said Isopel; “I will go myself and see +after my things.” “We will go together,” said +I, “and then return and have some tea.” Isopel made +no objection, and in about half-an-hour we had arranged everything at +her quarters. I then hastened and prepared tea. Presently +Isopel rejoined me, bringing her stool; she had divested herself of +her bonnet, and her hair fell over her shoulders; she sat down, and +I poured out the beverage, handing her a cup. “Have you +made a long journey to-night?” said I. “A very long +one,” replied Belle, “I have come nearly twenty miles since +six o’clock.” “I believe I heard you coming +in my sleep,” said I; “did the dogs above bark at you?” +“Yes,” said Isopel, “very violently; did you think +of me in your sleep?” “No,” said I, “I +was thinking of Ursula and something she had told me.” “When +and where was that?” said Isopel. “Yesterday evening,” +said I, “beneath the dingle hedge.” “Then you +were talking with her beneath the hedge?” “I was,” +said I, “but only upon <!-- page 333--><a name="page333"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 333</span>gypsy +matters. Do you know, Belle, that she has just been married to +Sylvester, so you need not think that she and I . . .” “She +and you are quite at liberty to sit where you please,” said Isopel. +“However, young man,” she continued, dropping her tone, +which she had slightly raised, “I believe what you said, that +you were merely talking about gypsy matters, and also what you were +going to say, if it was, as I suppose, that she and you had no particular +acquaintance.” Isopel was now silent for some time. +“What are you thinking of?” said I. “I was thinking,” +said Belle, “how exceedingly kind it was of you to get everything +in readiness for me, though you did not know that I should come.” +“I had a presentiment that you would come,” said I; “but +you forget that I have prepared the kettle for you before, though it +was true I was then certain that you would come.” “I +had not forgotten your doing so, young man,” said Belle; “but +I was beginning to think that you were utterly selfish, caring for nothing +but the gratification of your own strange whims.” “I +am very fond of having my own way,” said I, “but utterly +selfish I am not, as I dare say I shall frequently prove to you. +You will often find the kettle boiling when you come home.” +“Not heated by you,” said Isopel, with a sigh. “By +whom else?” said I; “surely you are not thinking of driving +me away?” “You have as much right here as myself,” +said Isopel, “as I have told you before; but I must be going myself.” +“Well,” said I, “we can go together; to tell you the +truth, I am rather tired of this place.” “Our paths +must be separate,” said Belle. <!-- page 334--><a name="page334"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 334</span>“Separate,” +said I, “what do you mean? I shan’t let you go alone, +I shall go with you; and you know the road is as free to me as to you; +besides, you can’t think of parting company with me, considering +how much you would lose by doing so; remember that you scarcely know +anything of the Armenian language; now, to learn Armenian from me would +take you twenty years.”</p> +<p>Belle faintly smiled. “Come,” said I, “take +another cup of tea.” Belle took another cup of tea, and +yet another; we had some indifferent conversation, after which I arose +and gave her donkey a considerable feed of corn. Belle thanked +me, shook me by the hand, and then went to her own tabernacle, and I +returned to mine.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIX.—VISIT TO THE LANDLORD—HIS MORTIFICATIONS—HUNTER +AND HIS CLAN—RESOLUTION.</h2> +<p>On the following morning, after breakfasting with Belle, who was +silent and melancholy, I left her in the dingle, and took a stroll amongst +the neighbouring lanes. After some time I thought I would pay +a visit to the landlord of the public-house, whom I had not seen since +the day when he communicated to me his intention of changing his religion. +I therefore directed my steps to the house, and on entering it found +the landlord standing in the kitchen. Just then two mean-looking +fellows, who had <!-- page 335--><a name="page335"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 335</span>been +drinking at one of the tables, and who appeared to be the only customers +in the house, got up, brushed past the landlord, and saying in a surly +tone “We shall pay you some time or other,” took their departure. +“That’s the way they serve me now,” said the landlord, +with a sigh. “Do you know those fellows,” I demanded, +“since you let them go away in your debt?” “I +know nothing about them,” said the landlord, “save that +they are a couple of scamps.” “Then why did you let +them go away without paying you?” said I. “I had not +the heart to stop them,” said the landlord; “and, to tell +you the truth, everybody serves me so now, and I suppose they are right, +for a child could flog me.” “Nonsense,” said +I, “behave more like a man, and with respect to those two fellows +run after them, I will go with you, and if they refuse to pay the reckoning +I will help you to shake some money out of their clothes.” +“Thank you,” said the landlord; “but as they are gone, +let them go on. What they have drank is not of much consequence.” +“What is the matter with you?” said I, staring at the landlord, +who appeared strangely altered; his features were wild and haggard, +his formerly bluff cheeks were considerably sunken in, and his figure +had lost much of its plumpness. “Have you changed your religion +already, and has the fellow in black commanded you to fast?” +“I have not changed my religion yet,” said the landlord, +with a kind of shudder; “I am to change it publicly this day fortnight, +and the idea of doing so—I do not mind telling you—preys +much upon my mind; moreover, the noise of the thing has got <!-- page 336--><a name="page336"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 336</span>abroad, +and everybody is laughing at me, and what’s more, coming and drinking +my beer, and going away without paying for it, whilst I feel myself +like one bewitched, wishing but not daring to take my own part. +Confound the fellow in black, I wish I had never seen him! yet what +can I do without him? The brewer swears that unless I pay him +fifty pounds within a fortnight he’ll send a distress warrant +into the house, and take all I have. My poor niece is crying in +the room above; and I am thinking of going into the stable and hanging +myself; and perhaps it’s the best thing I can do, for it’s +better to hang myself before selling my soul than afterwards, as I’m +sure I should, like Judas Iscariot, whom my poor niece, who is somewhat +religiously inclined, has been talking to me about.” “I +wish I could assist you,” said I, “with money, but that +is quite out of my power. However, I can give you a piece of advice. +Don’t change your religion by any means; you can’t hope +to prosper if you do; and if the brewer chooses to deal hardly with +you, let him. Everybody would respect you ten times more provided +you allowed yourself to be turned into the roads rather than change +your religion, than if you got fifty pounds for renouncing it.” +“I am half inclined to take your advice,” said the landlord, +“only, to tell you the truth, I feel quite low, without any heart +in me.” “Come into the bar,” said I, “and +let us have something together—you need not be afraid of my not +paying for what I order.”</p> +<p>We went into the bar-room, where the landlord and I discussed between +us two bottles of strong ale, which he <!-- page 337--><a name="page337"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 337</span>said +were part of the last six which he had in his possession. At first +he wished to drink sherry, but I begged him to do no such thing, telling +him that the sherry would do him no good, under the present circumstances; +nor, indeed, to the best of my belief under any, it being of all wines +the one for which I entertained the most contempt. The landlord +allowed himself to be dissuaded, and, after a glass or two of ale, confessed +that sherry was a sickly disagreeable drink, and that he had merely +been in the habit of taking it from an idea he had that it was genteel. +Whilst quaffing our beverage, he gave me an account of the various mortifications +to which he had of late been subject, dwelling with particular bitterness +on the conduct of Hunter, who, he said, came every night and mouthed +him, and afterwards went away without paying for what he had drank or +smoked, in which conduct he was closely imitated by a clan of fellows +who constantly attended him. After spending several hours at the +public-house I departed, not forgetting to pay for the two bottles of +ale. The landlord, before I went, shaking me by the hand, declared +that he had now made up his mind to stick to his religion at all hazards, +the more especially as he was convinced he should derive no good by +giving it up. <a name="citation337"></a><a href="#footnote337">{337}</a></p> +<h2><!-- page 338--><a name="page338"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 338</span>CHAPTER +XXX.—PREPARATIONS FOR THE FAIR—THE LAST LESSON—THE +VERB SIRIEL.</h2> +<p>It might be about five in the evening when I reached the gypsy encampment. +Here I found Mr. Petulengro, Tawno Chikno, Sylvester, and others, in +a great bustle, clipping and trimming certain ponies and old horses +which they had brought with them. On inquiring of Jasper the reason +of their being so engaged, he informed me that they were getting the +horses ready for a fair, which was to be held on the morrow, at a place +some miles distant, at which they should endeavour to dispose of them, +adding—“Perhaps, brother, you will go with us, provided +you have nothing better to do?” Not having any particular +engagement, I assured him that I should have great pleasure in being +of the party. It was agreed that we should start early on the +following morning. Thereupon I descended into the dingle. +Belle was sitting before the fire, at which the kettle was boiling. +“Were you waiting for me?” I inquired. “Yes,” +said Belle, “I thought that you would come, <!-- page 339--><a name="page339"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 339</span>and +I waited for you.” “That was very kind,” said +I. “Not half so kind,” said she, “as it was +of you to get everything ready for me in the dead of last night, when +there was scarcely a chance of my coming.” The tea-things +were brought forward, and we sat down. “Have you been far?” +said Belle. “Merely to that public-house,” said I, +“to which you directed me on the second day of our acquaintance.” +“Young men should not make a habit of visiting public-houses,” +said Belle, “they are bad places.” “They may +be so to some people,” said I, “but I do not think the worst +public-house in England could do me any harm.” “Perhaps +you are so bad already,” said Belle, with a smile, “that +it would be impossible to spoil you.” “How dare you +catch at my words?” said I; “come, I will make you pay for +doing so—you shall have this evening the longest lesson in Armenian +which I have yet inflicted upon you.” “You may well +say inflicted,” said Belle, “but pray spare me. I +do not wish to hear anything about Armenian, especially this evening.” +“Why this evening?” said I. Belle made no answer. +“I will not spare you,” said I; “this evening I intend +to make you conjugate an Armenian verb.” “Well, be +it so,” said Belle; “for this evening you shall command.” +“To command is hramahyel,” said I. “Ram her +ill, indeed,” said Belle; “I do not wish to begin with that.” +“No,” said I, “as we have come to the verbs, we will +begin regularly; hramahyel is a verb of the second conjugation. +We will begin with the first.” “First of all tell +me,” said Belle, <!-- page 340--><a name="page340"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 340</span>“what +a verb is?” “A part of speech,” said I, “which, +according to the dictionary, signifies some action or passion; for example, +I command you, or I hate you.” “I have given you no +cause to hate me,” said Belle, looking me sorrowfully in the face.</p> +<p>“I was merely giving two examples,” said I, “and +neither was directed at you. In those examples, to command and +hate are verbs. Belle, in Armenian there are four conjugations +of verbs; the first end in al, the second in yel, the third in oul, +and the fourth in il. Now, have you understood me?”</p> +<p>“I am afraid, indeed, it will all end ill,” said Belle. +“Hold your tongue,” said I, “or you will make me lose +my patience.” “You have already made me nearly lose +mine,” said Belle. “Let us have no unprofitable interruptions,” +said I. “The conjugations of the Armenian verbs are neither +so numerous nor so difficult as the declensions of the nouns; hear that, +and rejoice. Come, we will begin with the verb hntal, a verb of +the first conjugation, which signifies to rejoice. Come along: +hntam, I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest: why don’t you follow, +Belle?”</p> +<p>“I am sure I don’t rejoice, whatever you may do,” +said Belle. “The chief difficulty, Belle,” said I, +“that I find in teaching you the Armenian grammar, proceeds from +your applying to yourself and me every example I give. Rejoice, +in this instance, is merely an example of an Armenian verb of the first +conjugation, and has no more to do with your rejoicing than lal, which +is also a verb of the first conjugation, and which signifies <!-- page 341--><a name="page341"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 341</span>to +weep, would have to do with your weeping, provided I made you conjugate +it. Come along: hntam. I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest; +hntà, he rejoices; hntamk, we rejoice: now, repeat those words.”</p> +<p>“I can’t,” said Belle, “they sound more like +the language of horses than of human beings. Do you take me for +. . .?” “For what?” said I. Belle was +silent. “Were you going to say mare?” said I. +“Mare! mare! by-the-bye, do you know, Belle, that mare in old +English stands for woman; and that when we call a female an evil mare, +the strict meaning of the term is merely bad woman. So if I were +to call you mare, without prefixing bad, you must not be offended.” +“But I should, though,” said Belle. “I was merely +attempting to make you acquainted with a philological fact,” said +I. “If mare, which in old English, and likewise in vulgar +English, signifies a woman, sounds the same as mare, which in modern +and polite English signifies a female horse, I can’t help it. +There is no such confusion of sounds in Armenian, not, at least, in +the same instance. Belle, in Armenian, woman is ghin, the same +word, by-the-bye, as our queen, whereas mare is madagh tzi, which signifies +a female horse; and perhaps you will permit me to add, that a hard-mouthed +jade is, in Armenian, madagh tzi hsdierah.”</p> +<p>“I can’t bear this much longer,” said Belle. +“Keep yourself quiet,” said I; “I wish to be gentle +with you; and to convince you, we will skip hntal, and also for the +present verbs of the first conjugation, and proceed to the second. +Belle, I will now select for you to <!-- page 342--><a name="page342"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 342</span>conjugate +the prettiest verb in Armenian; not only of the second, but also of +all the four conjugations; that verb is siriel. Here is the present +tense:—siriem, siries, sirè, siriemk, sirèk, sirien. +You observe that it runs on just in the same manner as hntal, save and +except that e is substituted for a; and it will be as well to tell you +that almost the only difference between the second, third, and fourth +conjugations, and the first, is the substituting in the present, preterite, +and other tenses e, or ou, or i for a; so you see that the Armenian +verbs are by no means difficult. Come on, Belle, and say siriem.” +Belle hesitated. “Pray oblige me, Belle, by saying siriem!” +Belle still appeared to hesitate. “You must admit, Belle, +that it is much softer than hntam.” “It is so,” +said Belle; “and to oblige you, I will say siriem.” +“Very well indeed, Belle,” said I. “No vartabied, +or doctor, could have pronounced it better; and now, to show you how +verbs act upon pronouns in Armenian, I will say siriem zkiez. +Please to repeat siriem zkiez!” “Siriem zkiez!” +said Belle; “that last word is very hard to say.” +“Sorry that you think so, Belle,” said I. “Now +please to say siriá zis.” Belle did so. “Exceedingly +well,” said I. “Now say yerani thè sirèir +zis.” “Yerani thè sirèir zis,” +said Belle. “Capital!” said I; “you have now +said, I love you—love me—ah! would that you would love me!”</p> +<p>“And I have said all these things?” said Belle. +“Yes,” said I; “you have said them in Armenian.” +“I would have said them in no language that I understood,” +said Belle; “and it was very wrong of you to <!-- page 343--><a name="page343"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 343</span>take +advantage of my ignorance, and make me say such things.” +“Why so?” said I; “if you said them, I said them too.” +“You did so,” said Belle; “but I believe you were +merely bantering and jeering.” “As I told you before, +Belle,” said I, “the chief difficulty which I find in teaching +you Armenian proceeds from your persisting in applying to yourself and +me every example I give.” “Then you meant nothing +after all?” said Belle, raising her voice. “Let us +proceed,” said I; “sirietsi, I loved.” “You +never loved any one but yourself,” said Belle; “and what’s +more. . .” “Sirietsits, I will love,” said I; +“sirietsies, thou wilt love.” “Never one so +thoroughly heartless,” said Belle. “I tell you what, +Belle, you are becoming intolerable, but we will change the verb; or +rather I will now proceed to tell you here, that some of the Armenian +conjugations have their anomalies; one species of these I wish to bring +before your notice. As old Villotte <a name="citation343"></a><a href="#footnote343">{343}</a> +says—from whose work I first contrived to pick up the rudiments +of Armenian—‘Est verborum transitivorum, quorum infinitivus +. . .’ but I forgot, you don’t understand Latin. He +says there are certain transitive verbs, whose infinitive is in outsaniel; +the preterite in outsi; the imperative in oue; for example—parghat-soutsaniem, +I irritate . . .”</p> +<p>“You do, you do,” said Belle; “and it will be better +for both of us if you leave off doing so.”</p> +<p>“You would hardly believe, Belle,” said I, “that +the <!-- page 344--><a name="page344"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 344</span>Armenian +is in some respects closely connected with the Irish, but so it is; +for example, that word parghat-soutsaniem is evidently derived from +the same root as feargaim, which, in Irish, is as much as to say I vex.”</p> +<p>“You do, indeed,” said Belle, sobbing.</p> +<p>“But how do you account for it?”</p> +<p>“O man, man!” said Belle, bursting into tears, “for +what purpose do you ask a poor ignorant girl such a question, unless +it be to vex and irritate her? If you wish to display your learning, +do so to the wise and instructed, and not to me, who can scarcely read +or write. Oh, leave off your nonsense; yet I know you will not +do so, for it is the breath of your nostrils! I could have wished +we should have parted in kindness, but you will not permit it. +I have deserved better at your hands than such treatment. The +whole time we have kept company together in this place, I have scarcely +had one kind word from you, but the strangest . . .” and here +the voice of Belle was drowned in her sobs.</p> +<p>“I am sorry to see you take on so, dear Belle,” said +I. “I really have given you no cause to be so unhappy; surely +teaching you a little Armenian was a very innocent kind of diversion.”</p> +<p>“Yes, but you went on so long, and in such a strange way, and +made me repeat such strange examples, as you call them, that I could +not bear it.”</p> +<p>“Why, to tell you the truth, Belle, it’s my way; and +I have dealt with you just as I would with . . .”</p> +<p>“A hard-mouthed jade,” said Belle, “and you <!-- page 345--><a name="page345"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 345</span>practising +your horse-witchery upon her. I have been of an unsubdued spirit, +I acknowledge, but I was always kind to you; and if you have made me +cry, it’s a poor thing to boast of.”</p> +<p>“Boast of!” said I; “a pretty thing indeed to boast +of; I had no idea of making you cry. Come, I beg your pardon; +what more can I do? Come, cheer up, Belle. You were talking +of parting; don’t let us part, but depart, and that together.”</p> +<p>“Our ways lie different,” said Belle.</p> +<p>“I don’t see why they should,” said I. “Come, +let us be off to America together!”</p> +<p>“To America together?” said Belle, looking full at me.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said I; “where we will settle down in some +forest, and conjugate the verb siriel conjugally.”</p> +<p>“Conjugally?” said Belle.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said I; “as man and wife in America, air +yew ghin.”</p> +<p>“You are jesting, as usual,” said Belle.</p> +<p>“Not I, indeed. Come, Belle, make up your mind, and let +us be off to America; and leave priests, humbug, learning, and languages +behind us.”</p> +<p>“I don’t think you arc jesting,” said Belle; “but +I can hardly entertain your offers; however, young man, I thank you.”</p> +<p>“You had better make up your mind at once,” said I, “and +let us be off. I shan’t make a bad husband, I assure you. +Perhaps you think I am not worthy of you? To convince you, Belle, +that I am, I am ready to try a <!-- page 346--><a name="page346"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 346</span>fall +with you this moment upon the grass. Brynhilda, the valkyrie, +swore that no one should marry her who could not fling her down. +Perhaps you have done the same. The man who eventually married +her, got a friend of his, who was called Sigurd, the serpent-killer, +to wrestle with her, disguising him in his own armour. Sigurd +flung her down, and won her for his friend, though he loved her himself. +I shall not use a similar deceit, nor employ Jasper Petulengro to personate +me—so get up, Belle, and I will do my best to fling you down.”</p> +<p>“I require no such thing of you, or anybody,” said Belle; +“you are beginning to look rather wild.”</p> +<p>“I every now and then do,” said I; “come, Belle, +what do you say?”</p> +<p>“I will say nothing at present on the subject,” said +Belle; “I must have time to consider.”</p> +<p>“Just as you please,” said I; “to-morrow I go to +a fair with Mr. Petulengro, perhaps you will consider whilst I am away. +Come, Belle, let us have some more tea. I wonder whether we shall +be able to procure tea as good as this in the American forest.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXI.—THE DAWN OF DAY—THE LAST FAREWELL—DEPARTURE +FOR THE FAIR—THE FINE HORSE—RETURN TO THE DINGLE—NO +ISOPEL.</h2> +<p>It was about the dawn of day when I was awakened by the voice of +Mr. Petulengro shouting from the top of the dingle, and bidding me get +up. I arose instantly, <!-- page 347--><a name="page347"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 347</span>and +dressed myself for the expedition to the fair. On leaving my tent, +I was surprised to observe Belle, entirely dressed, standing close to +her own little encampment. “Dear me,” said I, “I +little expected to find you up so early. I suppose Jasper’s +call awakened you, as it did me.” “I merely lay down +in my things,” said Belle, “and have not slept during the +night.” “And why did you not take off your things +and go to sleep?” said I. “I did not undress,” +said Belle, “because I wished to be in readiness to bid you farewell +when you departed; and as for sleeping, I could not.” “Well, +God bless you!” said I, taking Belle by the hand. Belle +made no answer, and I observed that her hand was very cold. “What +is the matter with you?” said I, looking her in the face. +Belle looked at me for a moment in the eyes, and then cast down her +own—her features were very pale. “You are really unwell,” +said I; “I had better not go to the fair, but stay here, and take +care of you.” “No,” said Belle, “pray +go, I am not unwell.” “Then go to your tent,” +said I, “and do not endanger your health by standing abroad in +the raw morning air. God bless you, Belle; I shall be home to-night, +by which time I expect you will have made up your mind; if not, another +lesson in Armenian, however late the hour be.” I then wrung +Belle’s hand, and ascended to the plain above.</p> +<p>I found the Romany party waiting for me, and everything in readiness +for departing. Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno were mounted on +two old horses. The rest who intended to go to the fair, amongst +whom <!-- page 348--><a name="page348"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 348</span>were +two or three women, were on foot. On arriving at the extremity +of the plain, I looked towards the dingle. Isopel Berners stood +at the mouth, the beams of the early morning sun shone full on her noble +face and figure. I waved my hand towards her. She slowly +lifted up her right arm. I turned away, and never saw Isopel Berners +again. <a name="citation348"></a><a href="#footnote348">{348}</a></p> +<p>My companions and myself proceeded on our way. In about two +hours we reached the place where the fair was to be held. After +breakfasting on bread and cheese and ale behind a broken stone wall, +we drove our animals to the fair. The fair was a common cattle +and horse fair: there was little merriment going on, but there was no +lack of business. By about two o’clock in the afternoon, +Mr. Petulengro and his people had disposed of their animals at what +they conceived very fair prices—they were all in high spirits, +and Jasper <!-- page 349--><a name="page349"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 349</span>proposed +to adjourn to a public-house. As we were proceeding to one, a +very fine horse, led by a jockey, made its appearance on the ground. +Mr. Petulengro stopped short, and looked at it steadfastly: “Fino +covar dove odoy sas miro—a fine thing were that, if it were but +mine!” he exclaimed. “If you covet it,” said +I, “why do you not purchase it?” “We low gyptians +never buy animals of that description; if we did we could never sell +them, and most likely should be had up as horse-stealers.” +“Then why did you say just now, ‘It were a fine thing if +it were but yours’?” said I. “We gyptians always +say so when we see anything that we admire. An animal like that +is not intended for a little hare like me, but for some grand gentleman +like yourself. I say, brother, do you buy that horse!” +“How should I buy the horse, you foolish person?” said I. +“Buy the horse, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “if +you have not the money I can lend it you, though I be of lower Egypt.” +“You talk nonsense,” said I; “however, I wish you +would ask the man the price of it.” Mr. Petulengro, going +up to the jockey, inquired the price of the horse—the man, looking +at him scornfully, made no reply. “Young man,” said +I, going up to the jockey, “do me the favour to tell me the price +of that horse, as I suppose it is to sell.” The jockey, +who was a surly-looking man of about fifty, looked at me for a moment, +then, after some hesitation, said laconically, “Seventy.” +“Thank you,” said I, and turned away. “Buy that +horse,” said Mr. Petulengro, coming after me; “the dook +tells me that in less <!-- page 350--><a name="page350"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 350</span>than +three months he will be sold for twice seventy.” “I +will have nothing to do with him,” said I; “besides, Jasper, +I don’t like his tail. Did you observe what a mean scrubby +tail he has?” “What a fool you are, brother!” +said Mr. Petulengro; “that very tail of his shows his breeding. +No good bred horse ever yet carried a fine tail—’tis your +scrubby-tailed horses that are your out-and-outers. Did you ever +hear of Syntax, brother? That tail of his puts me in mind of Syntax. +Well, I say nothing more, have your own way—all I wonder at is, +that a horse like him was ever brought to such a fair of dog cattle +as this.”</p> +<p>We then made the best of our way to a public-house, where we had +some refreshment. I then proposed returning to the encampment, +but Mr. Petulengro declined, and remained drinking with his companions +till about six o’clock in the evening, when various jockeys from +the fair come in. After some conversation a jockey proposed a +game of cards; and in a little time, Mr. Petulengro and another gypsy +sat down to play a game of cards with two of the jockeys.</p> +<p>Though not much acquainted with cards, I soon conceived a suspicion +that the jockeys were cheating Mr. Petulengro and his companion; I therefore +called Mr. Petulengro aside, and gave him a hint to that effect. +Mr. Petulengro, however, instead of thanking me, told me to mind my +own bread and butter, and forthwith returned to his game. I continued +watching the players for some hours. The gypsies lost considerably, +and I saw clearly that the jockeys were cheating <!-- page 351--><a name="page351"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 351</span>them +most confoundedly. I therefore once more called Mr. Petulengro +aside, and told him that the jockeys were cheating him, conjuring him +to return to the encampment. Mr. Petulengro, who was by this time +somewhat the worse for liquor, now fell into a passion, swore several +oaths, and asking me who had made me a Moses over him and his brethren, +told me to return to the encampment by myself. Incensed at the +unworthy return which my well-meant words had received, I forthwith +left the house, and having purchased a few articles of provision, I +set out for the dingle alone. It was dark night when I reached +it, and descending I saw the glimmer of a fire from the depths of the +dingle; my heart beat with fond anticipation of a welcome. “Isopel +Berners is waiting for me,” said I, “and the first word +that I shall hear from her lips is that she has made up her mind. +We shall go to America, and be so happy together.” On reaching +the bottom of the dingle, however, I saw seated near the fire, beside +which stood the kettle simmering, not Isopel Berners, but a gypsy girl, +who told me that Miss Berners when she went away had charged her to +keep up the fire, and have the kettle boiling against my arrival. +Startled at these words, I inquired at what hour Isopel had left, and +whither she was gone, and was told that she had left the dingle, with +her cart, about two hours after I departed; but where she was gone the +girl did not know. I then asked whether she had left no message, +and the girl replied that she had left none, but had merely given <!-- page 352--><a name="page352"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 352</span>directions +about the kettle and fire, putting, at the same time, sixpence into +her hand. “Very strange,” thought I; then dismissing +the gypsy girl I sat down by the fire. I had no wish for tea, +but sat looking on the embers, wondering what could be the motive of +the sudden departure of Isopel. “Does she mean to return?” +thought I to myself. “Surely she means to return,” +Hope replied, “or she would not have gone away without leaving +any message”—“and yet she could scarcely mean to return,” +muttered Foreboding, “or she would assuredly have left some message +with the girl.” I then thought to myself what a hard thing +it would be, if, after having made up my mind to assume the yoke of +matrimony, I should be disappointed of the woman of my choice. +“Well, after all,” thought I, “I can scarcely be disappointed; +if such an ugly scoundrel as Sylvester had no difficulty in getting +such a nice wife as Ursula, surely I, who am not a tenth part so ugly, +cannot fail to obtain the hand of Isopel Berners, uncommonly fine damsel +though she be. Husbands do not grow upon hedge-rows; she is merely +gone after a little business and will return to-morrow.”</p> +<p>Comforted in some degree by these hopeful imaginings, I retired to +my tent, and went to sleep.</p> +<h2><!-- page 353--><a name="page353"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 353</span>CHAPTER +XXXII.—GLOOMY FOREBODINGS—THE POSTMAN’S MOTHER—A +VALEDICTORY LETTER FROM ISOPEL WITH A LOCK OF HER HAIR—THE END +OF A CHAPTER IN THE LIFE OF THE ROMANY RYE—AND OF THE BOOK OF +ISOPEL BERNERS.</h2> +<p>Nothing occurred to me of any particular moment during the following +day. Isopel Berners did not return; but Mr. Petulengro and his +companions came home from the fair early in the morning. When +I saw him, which was about mid-day, I found him with his face bruised +and swelled. It appeared that, some time after I had left him, +he himself perceived that the jockeys with whom he was playing cards +were cheating him and his companion; a quarrel ensued, which terminated +in a fight between Mr. Petulengro and one of the jockeys, which lasted +some time, and in which Mr. Petulengro, though he eventually came off +victor, was considerably beaten. His bruises, in conjunction with +his pecuniary loss, which amounted to about seven pounds, were the cause +of his being much out of humour; before night, however, he had returned +to his usual philosophic frame of mind, and, coming up to me as I was +walking about, apologised for his behaviour on the preceding day, and +assured me that he was determined, from that time forward, never to +quarrel with a friend for giving him good advice.</p> +<p><!-- page 354--><a name="page354"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 354</span>Two +more days passed, and still Isopel Berners did not return. Gloomy +thoughts and forebodings filled my mind. During the day I wandered +about the neighbouring roads in the hopes of catching an early glimpse +of her and her returning vehicle; and at night lay awake, tossing about +on my hard couch, listening to the rustle of every leaf, and occasionally +thinking that I heard the sound of her wheels upon the distant road. +Once at midnight, just as I was about to fall into unconsciousness, +I suddenly started up, for I was convinced that I heard the sound of +wheels. I listened most anxiously, and the sound of wheels striking +against stones was certainly plain enough. “She comes at +last,” thought I, and for a few moments I felt as if a mountain +had been removed from my breast;—“here she comes at last, +now, how shall I receive her? Oh,” thought I, “I will +receive her rather coolly, just as if I was not particularly anxious +about her—that’s the way to manage these women.” +The next moment the sound became very loud, rather too loud, I thought, +to proceed from her wheels, and then by degrees became fainter. +Rushing out of my tent, I hurried up the path to the top of the dingle, +where I heard the sound distinctly enough, but it was going from me, +and evidently proceeded from something much larger than the cart of +Isopel. I could, moreover, hear the stamping of a horse’s +hoofs at a lumbering trot. Those only whose hopes have been wrought +up to a high pitch, and then suddenly dashed down, can imagine what +I felt at that moment; and yet when I returned <!-- page 355--><a name="page355"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 355</span>to +my lonely tent, and lay down on my hard pallet, the voice of conscience +told me that the misery I was then undergoing, I had fully merited, +from the unkind manner in which I had intended to receive her, when +for a brief moment I supposed that she had returned.</p> +<p>It was on the morning after this affair, and the fourth, if I forget +not, from the time of Isopel’s departure, that, as I was seated +on my stone at the bottom of the dingle, getting my breakfast, I heard +an unknown voice from the path above—apparently that of a person +descending—exclaim, “Here’s a strange place to bring +a letter to;” and presently an old woman, with a belt round her +middle, to which was attached a leathern bag, made her appearance, and +stood before me.</p> +<p>“Well, if I ever!” said she, as she looked about her. +“My good gentlewoman,” said I, “pray what may you +please to want?” “Gentlewoman!” said the old +dame, “please to want!—well, I call that speaking civilly, +at any rate. It is true, civil words cost nothing; nevertheless, +we do not always get them. What I please to want is to deliver +a letter to a young man in this place; perhaps you be he?” +“What’s the name on the letter?” said I, getting up +and going to her. “There is no name upon it,” said +she, taking a letter out of her scrip and looking at it. “It +is directed to the young man in Mumpers’ Dingle.” +“Then it is for me, I make no doubt,” said I, stretching +out my hand to take it. “Please to pay me ninepence <!-- page 356--><a name="page356"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 356</span>first,” +said the old woman. “However,” said she, after a moment’s +thought, “civility is civility, and, being rather a scarce article, +should meet with some return. Here’s the letter, young man, +and I hope you will pay for it; for if you do not, I must pay the postage +myself.” “You are the postwoman, I suppose?” +said I, as I took the letter. “I am the postman’s +mother,” said the old woman; “but as he has a wide beat, +I help him as much as I can, and I generally carry letters to places +like this, to which he is afraid to come himself.” “You +say the postage is ninepence,” said I, “here’s a shilling.” +“Well, I call that honourable,” said the old woman, taking +the shilling and putting it into her pocket—“here’s +your change, young man,” said she, offering me threepence. +“Pray keep that for yourself,” said I; “you deserve +it for your trouble.” “Well, I call that genteel,” +said the old woman; “and as one good turn deserves another, since +you look as if you couldn’t read, I will read your letter for +you. Let’s see it; it’s from some young woman or other, +I dare say.” “Thank you,” said I, “but +I can read.” “All the better for you,” said +the old woman; “your being able to read will frequently save you +a penny, for that’s the charge I generally make for reading letters; +though, as you behaved so genteelly to me, I should have charged you +nothing. Well, if you can read, why don’t you open the letter, +instead of keeping it hanging between your finger and thumb?” +“I am in no hurry to open it,” said I, with a sigh. +The old woman looked at me for a moment—“Well, young <!-- page 357--><a name="page357"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 357</span>man,” +said she, “there are some—especially those who can read—who +don’t like to open their letters when anybody is by, more especially +when they come from young women. Well, I won’t intrude upon +you, but leave you alone with your letter. I wish it may contain +something pleasant. God bless you,” and with these words +she departed.</p> +<p>I sat down on my stone, with my letter in my hand. I knew perfectly +well that it could have come from no other person than Isopel Berners; +but what did the letter contain? I guessed tolerably well what +its purport was—an eternal farewell! yet I was afraid to open +the letter, lest my expectation should be confirmed. There I sat +with the letter, putting off the evil moment as long as possible. +At length I glanced at the direction, which was written in a fine bold +hand, and was directed, as the old woman had said, to the young man +in “Mumpers’ Dingle,” with the addition, “near +. . ., in the county of . . . .” Suddenly the idea occurred +to me, that, after all, the letter might not contain an eternal farewell; +and that Isopel might have written, requesting me to join her. +Could it be so? “Alas! no,” presently said Foreboding. +At last I became ashamed of my weakness. The letter must be opened +sooner or later. Why not at once? So as the bather who, +for a considerable time has stood shivering on the bank, afraid to take +the decisive plunge, suddenly takes it, I tore open the letter almost +before I was aware. I had no sooner done so than a paper fell +out. I examined it; it contained a lock of bright flaxen hair. +“This is <!-- page 358--><a name="page358"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 358</span>no +good sign,” said I, as I thrust the lock and paper into my bosom, +and proceeded to read the letter, which ran as follows:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“TO THE YOUNG MAN IN MUMPERS’ DINGLE.</p> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—I send these lines, +with the hope and trust that they will find you well, even as I am myself +at this moment, and in much better spirits, for my own are not such +as I could wish they were, being sometimes rather hysterical and vapourish, +and at other times, and most often, very low. I am at a sea-port, +and am just going on shipboard; and when you get these I shall be on +the salt waters, on my way to a distant country, and leaving my own +behind me, which I do not expect ever to see again.</p> +<p>“And now, young man, I will, in the first place, say something +about the manner in which I quitted you. It must have seemed somewhat +singular to you that I went away without taking any leave, or giving +you the slightest hint that I was going; but I did not do so without +considerable reflection. I was afraid that I should not be able +to support a leave-taking; and as you had said that you were determined +to go wherever I did, I thought it best not to tell you at all; for +I did not think it advisable that you should go with me, and I wished +to have no dispute.</p> +<p>“In the second place, I wish to say something about an offer +of wedlock which you made me; perhaps, young man, had you made it at +the first period of our acquaintance, I should have accepted it, but +you did <!-- page 359--><a name="page359"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 359</span>not, +and kept putting off and putting off, and behaving in a very grange +manner, till I could stand your conduct no longer, but determined upon +leaving you and Old England, which last step I had been long thinking +about; so when you made your offer at last, everything was arranged—my +cart and donkey engaged to be sold—and the greater part of my +things disposed of. However, young man, when you did make it, +I frankly tell you that I had half a mind to accept it; at last, however, +after very much consideration, I thought it best to leave you for ever, +because, for some time past, I had become almost convinced, that though +with a wonderful deal of learning, and exceedingly shrewd in some things, +you were—pray don’t be offended—at the root mad! and +though mad people, I have been told sometimes make very good husbands, +I was unwilling that your friends, if you had any, should say that Belle +Berners, the workhouse girl, took advantage of your infirmity; for there +is no concealing that I was born and bred up in a workhouse; notwithstanding +that, my blood is better than your own, and as good as the best; you +having yourself told me that my name is a noble name, and once, if I +mistake not, that it was the same word as baron, which is the same thing +as bear; and that to be called in old times a bear was considered a +great compliment—the bear being a mighty strong animal, on which +account our forefathers called all their great fighting-men barons, +which is the same as bears.</p> +<p>“However, setting matters of blood and family entirely aside, +many thanks to you, young man, from <!-- page 360--><a name="page360"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 360</span>poor +Belle, for the honour you did her in making that same offer; for, after +all, it is an honour to receive an honourable offer, which she could +see clearly yours was, with no floriness nor chaff in it; but, on the +contrary, entire sincerity. She assures you that she shall always +bear it and yourself in mind, whether on land or water; and as a proof +of the good-will she bears to you, she sends you a lock of the hair +which she wears on her head, which you were often looking at, and were +pleased to call flax, which word she supposes you meant as a compliment, +even as the old people meant to pass a compliment to their great folks, +when they called them bears; though she cannot help thinking that they +might have found an animal as strong as a bear, and somewhat less uncouth, +to call their great folks after: even as she thinks yourself, amongst +your great store of words, might have found something a little more +genteel to call her hair after than flax, which, though strong and useful, +is rather a coarse and common kind of article.</p> +<p>“And as another proof of the good-will she bears to you, she +sends you, along with the lock, a piece of advice, which is worth all +the hair in the world, to say nothing of the flax.</p> +<p>“<i>Fear God</i>, and take your own part. There’s +Bible in that, young man; see how Moses feared God, and how he took +his own part against everybody who meddled with him. And see how +David feared God, and took his own part against all the bloody enemies +which surrounded him—so fear God, young man, and <!-- page 361--><a name="page361"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 361</span>never +give in. The world can bully, and is fond, provided it sees a +man in a kind of difficulty, of getting about him, calling him coarse +names, and even going so far as to hustle him; but the world, like all +bullies, carries a white feather in its tail, and no sooner sees the +man taking off his coat, and offering to fight his best, than it scatters +here and there, and is always civil to him afterwards. So when +folks are disposed to ill-treat you, young man, say ‘Lord, have +mercy upon me!’ and then tip them Long Melford, to which, as the +saying goes, there is nothing comparable for shortness all the world +over; and these last words, young man, are the last you will ever have +from her who is nevertheless,</p> +<p>“Your affectionate female servant,</p> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Isopel Berners</span>.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>After reading the letter I sat for some time motionless, holding +it in my hand. <a name="citation361"></a><a href="#footnote361">{361}</a> +The day-dream in which I had been a little time before indulging, of +marrying Isopel Berners, of going with her to America, and having by +her a large progeny, who were to assist me in felling trees, cultivating +the soil, and who would take care of me when I was old, was now thoroughly +dispelled. Isopel had deserted me, and was gone to America by +<!-- page 362--><a name="page362"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 362</span>herself, +where, perhaps, she would marry some other person, and would bear him +a progeny, who would do for him what in my dream I had hoped my progeny +by her would do for me. Then the thought came into my head that +though she was gone I might follow her to America, but then I thought +that if I did I might not find her; America was a very large place, +and I did not know the port to which she was bound; but I could follow +her to the port from which she had sailed, and there possibly discover +the port to which she was bound; but then I did not even know the port +from which she had set out, for Isopel had not dated her letter from +any place. Suddenly it occurred to me that the post-mark on the +letter would tell me from whence it came, so I forthwith looked at the +back of the letter, and in the post-mark read the name of a well-known +and not very distant sea-port. I then knew with tolerable certainty +the port where she had embarked, and I almost determined to follow her, +but I almost instantly determined to do no such thing. Isopel +Berners had abandoned me, and I would not follow her; “perhaps,” +whispered Pride, “if I overtook her, she would only despise me +for running after her”; and it also told me pretty roundly that, +provided I ran after her, whether I overtook her or not, I should heartily +despise myself. So I determined not to follow Isopel Berners; +I took her lock of hair, and looked at it, then put it in her letter, +which I folded up and carefully stowed away, resolved to keep both for +ever, but I determined not to follow her. Two or three <!-- page 363--><a name="page363"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 363</span>times, +however, during the day I wavered in my determination, and was again +and again almost tempted to follow her, but every succeeding time the +temptation was fainter. In the evening I left the dingle, and +sat down with Mr. Petulengro and his family by the door of his tent. +Mr. Petulengro soon began talking of the letter which I had received +in the morning. “Is it not from Miss Berners, brother?” +said he. I told him it was. “Is she coming back, brother?” +“Never,” said I; “she is gone to America, and has +deserted me.” “I always knew that you two were never +destined for each other,” said he. “How did you know +that?” I inquired. “The dook told me so, brother; +you are born to be a great traveller.” “Well,” +said I, “if I had gone with her to America, as I was thinking +of doing, I should have been a great traveller.” “You +are to travel in another direction, brother,” said he. “I +wish you would tell me all about my future wanderings,” said I. +“I can’t, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “there’s +a power of clouds before my eye.” “You are a poor +seer, after all,” said I, and getting up, I retired to my dingle +and my tent, where I betook myself to my bed, and there, knowing the +worst, and being no longer agitated by apprehension, nor agonised by +expectation, I was soon buried in a deep slumber, the first which I +had fallen into for several nights.</p> +<h2>Footnotes:</h2> +<p><a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1">{1}</a> He was +christened George Henry, but he dropped the Henry, as, Tobias George +Smollett dropped his George.</p> +<p><a name="footnote2"></a><a href="#citation2">{2}</a> Dafydd +ab Gwilym, “the greatest genius of the Cimbric race and one of +the first poets of the world.” See <i>Wild Wales</i>, chap. +lxxxvi., for a very interesting account of this “Welsh Ovid.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote5"></a><a href="#citation5">{5}</a> Elsewhere +he writes to John Murray: “What a contemptible trade is the author’s +compared with that of the jockey!”</p> +<p><a name="footnote8"></a><a href="#citation8">{8}</a> For a +useful, if more commonplace and merely bibliographical study of Sir +Richard Phillipps, see W. E. A. Axon’s <i>Stray Chapters</i>, +1888, p. 237.</p> +<p><a name="footnote12"></a><a href="#citation12">{12}</a> This +is no less true of Borrow’s still earlier book <i>The Zincali</i>, +<i>An Account of the Gypsies of Spain</i> (1841)—a book which +every true Borrovian will carefully assimilate, if only for these reasons: +First, it supplies a key to much of his later work, many of the greatest +qualities of which may here be found in embryo. Secondly, it contains +some of the finest descriptive passages in the English tongue, notably +the account of the Gitána of Seville.</p> +<p><a name="footnote20a"></a><a href="#citation20a">{20a}</a> +The beer he got was seldom to his taste; he called it “swipes,” +but went on drinking glass after glass. What a figure he must +have made in the bar parlour of the Bald-faced Stag at Roehampton, with +his tales of Jerry Abershaw, Ambrose Gwinett, Thurtell and Wainewright! +Mr. Watts-Dunton says he had the gift of drinking deeply, but he adds +“of the waters of life,” a refinement which Borrow himself +might have deprecated.</p> +<p><a name="footnote20b"></a><a href="#citation20b">{20b}</a> +Henry Hall Dixon.</p> +<p><a name="footnote22"></a><a href="#citation22">{22}</a> Of +the marvellous facility with which some people learn languages in the +latter sense we have a good example cited by Alfred Russel Wallace, +in the case of a Flemish planter of Ceram, near Amboyna, named Captain +Van der Beck. “When quite a youth he had accompanied a Government +official who was sent to report on the trade and commerce of the Mediterranean, +and had acquired <i>the colloquial language of every place they stayed +a few weeks at</i>. He had afterwards made voyages to St. Petersburg, +and to other parts of Europe, including a few weeks in London; and had +then come out to the East, where he had been for some years trading +and speculating in the various islands. He now spoke Dutch, French, +Malay and Javanese, all equally well; English with a very slight accent, +but with perfect fluency, and a most complete knowledge of idiom, in +which I often tried to puzzle him in vain. German and Italian +were also quite familiar to him, and his acquaintance with European +languages included Modern Greek, Turkish, Russian and colloquial Hebrew +and Latin. As a test of his power, I may mention that he had made +a voyage to the out-of-the-way island of Salibaboo, and had stayed there +trading a few weeks. As I was collecting vocabularies, he told +me he thought he could remember some words, and dictated a considerable +number. Some time after I met with a short list of words taken +down in those islands, and in every case they agreed with those he had +given me. He used to sing a Hebrew drinking-song, which he had +learned from some Jews with whom he had once travelled and astonished +by joining in their conversation.” <a name="citation23"></a><a href="#footnote23">{23}</a> +Borrow’s colloquial gift was, to all appearance, closely allied +to that of this polyglot Fleming.</p> +<p><a name="footnote23"></a><a href="#citation23">{23}</a> Wallace, +<i>The Malay Archipelago</i>, 1890, p. 269.</p> +<p><a name="footnote25"></a><a href="#citation25">{25}</a> Flunkeyism +he called it, and thence deduced the pecuniary miseries of Scott’s +later life. His depreciatory view was in part, too, I believe, +an echo from his favourite <i>Vidocq</i>. Speaking of the gipsies +in his chapter on “Les Careurs,” Vidocq calls them a species +characterised and depicted with so little truth by the first romance-writer +of our time. But Borrow certainly had a far deeper reason for +his dislike of Scott. Under the specious pretence of deference +for antiquity and respect for primitive models, he imagined that Scott +was sapping the foundations of Protestantism. Newman from the +opposite camp saw only the beneficial effect of Scott’s influence +in turning men’s minds in the direction of the Middle Ages. +(See his article in the <i>British Critic</i> for April 1839, and <i>Apologia</i>, +chap. iii.). As for Wordsworth, Borrow (with characteristic wrong-headedness) +conceived him as an impostor. Had <i>he</i> made Nature his tent +and the hard earth his bed with the stars for a canopy? No; he +walked out to sing of moorland, and fell from a “highly eligible” +cottage in the Lakes, where women-folk, at his beck and call, bore the +brunt of the “plain living.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote27a"></a><a href="#citation27a">{27a}</a> +The “splendid old corsair,” E. J. T., is best known perhaps +as the grim and grizzled pilot in Millais’ great picture (now +in the Tate) of the North-west Passage. Trelawny and Borrow are +linked together as men whose mental powers were strong but whose bodily +powers were still stronger in the <i>Memoirs</i> of Gordon Hake (who +knew both of them well). Another rival of Borrow in respect to +the <i>Mens sana in corpore sano</i> was the famous Dr. Whewell, Master +of Trinity. Mr. Murray tells a story of his concern at a dinner-party +upon a prospect of an altercation between Borrow and Whewell. +With both omniscience was a foible. Both were powerful men; and +both of them, if report were true, had more than a superficial knowledge +of the art of self-defence.</p> +<p><a name="footnote27b"></a><a href="#citation27b">{27b}</a> +As a matter of fact there was nothing in the least degree squalid about +Borrow’s subjects or treatment. His tramps and vagabonds +have nothing about them that is repulsive. Borrow, it is true, +was ready enough to condone the offences of those who sought dupes among +the well-to-do public; but he preferred the honester members of the +vagrant class; and it is plain that they reciprocated the preference, +for they regarded the Romany Rye with an almost superstitious reverence +on account of his truth, honour bright and fair speech. Borrow +had a passion for depicting the class that Hurtado de Mendoza had first +caught for literature in his <i>Lazarillo</i> (1553)—that, namely, +of the old tricksters of the highway who still retained many traits, +noble and ignoble, from the primeval savage. For the characteristically +mean and squalid one must go up higher in the scale of civilisation.</p> +<p><a name="footnote30"></a><a href="#citation30">{30}</a> Of +all the reviews of <i>Lavengro</i>, extraordinary as many now appear, +it was left for the month of July in the year of grace 1900 to produce +the most delightfully amazing. We subjoin it verbatim from the +<i>Catholic Times</i> of July 27th, 1900.</p> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Lavengro: The Scholar, The Gypsy, The +Priest</span>. By George Burrow. With an introduction by +Theodore Watts-Dunton. (London: Ward, Lock, and Co., Ltd.) +2s.</p> +<p>“We suppose the publishers find that this sort of literary +rubbish, suffused with antediluvian bigotry of the most benighted character, +pays: otherwise, no doubt, they would not have issued it as a volume +of their ‘New Minerva Library.’ It consists of a twaddling +introduction by Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton, who tells us he has been +‘brought into personal relations with many men of genius,’ +and so on <i>ad nauseam</i>, and of a sort of novel by Mr. Burrow, in +a palpable imitation of the style of De Foe without a spark of De Foe’s +ability. The only thing for which this Mr. Burrow is distinguished +is his crass anti-Catholic bigotry; and the terms in which, in one part +of the book at least, he refers to the Blessed Virgin are an outrage +not merely on the religious feelings of Catholics, but also on ordinary +propriety. Catholics, unless they deserve to be treated scornfully, +will take note of the fact that such a work as this has been issued +by Messrs. Ward and Lock.” To get an idea of the <i>semper +eadem</i> of Catholic criticism, the reader should compare with the +above the <i>Dublin Review</i> for May 1843, in which the author of +the <i>Bible in Spain</i> is described as “a missionary sent out +by a gang of conspirators against Christianity who denominate themselves +the Bible Society.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote37"></a><a href="#citation37">{37}</a> The +popularity of <i>Lavengro</i> has been rapidly on the increase during +the past ten years, if we may judge by the number of editions. +It was printed in the Minerva series in 1889, and reprinted 1900. +A version of large portions of the work by Duclos appeared in 1892. +Macmillans published an edition in 1896, Newnes in 1897. It was +included in the “Oxford Library,” 1898. An illustrated +edition, an edition produced under the supervision of Dr. Knapp, a miniature +edition of Dent’s, and the reprint of the Minerva edition, already +referred to, appeared in 1900, apart from booksellers’ reprints +such as those of Denny and Mudie.</p> +<p><a name="footnote38"></a><a href="#citation38">{38}</a> Dr. +Jessopp in <i>Daily Chronicle</i>. April 30th, 1900.</p> +<p><a name="footnote39a"></a><a href="#citation39a">{39a}</a> +Borrow is said to have expressed a desire to meet but three sentient +beings: Dan O’Connell, Lamplighter (a racehorse), and Anna Gurney. +He was introduced into the presence of the last-mentioned at Sheringham, +but so far below the vision was the reality (as must appear) that he +turned and ran without stopping till he came to the Old Tucker’s +Inn at Cromer (East Anglian tradition).</p> +<p><a name="footnote39b"></a><a href="#citation39b">{39b}</a> +Mary Clarke, widow, daughter of Edmund Skepper, was wedded to Borrow +on April 23rd, 1840. Her daughter, Henrietta, is still living +at a great age at Yarmouth. Borrow gives a characteristic account +of these two ladies in the first chapter of <i>Wild Wales</i>. +“Of my wife I will merely say that she is a perfect paragon of +wives—can make puddings and sweets and treacle posset, and is +the best woman of business in East Anglia: of my step-daughter, for +such she is though I generally call her daughter, and with good reason +seeing that she has always shown herself a daughter to me, that she +has all kinds of good qualities and several accomplishments, knowing +something of conchology, more of botany, drawing capitally in the Dutch +style, and playing remarkably well on the guitar—not the trumpery +German thing so-called, but the real Spanish guitar.” Borrow’s +mother had died in August 1858.</p> +<p><a name="footnote40"></a><a href="#citation40">{40}</a> This +was written in December 1900.</p> +<p><a name="footnote43"></a><a href="#citation43">{43}</a> There +remains only the <i>Appendix</i>. A delightful resumé of +grievances brooded over in solitude, cruelly stigmatised by Professor +Knapp as “certain posterior interpolations.” The ground +base of the theme is the wickedness of popery; and when argument gives +out Borrow is ready with all the boyish inconsequence of a Charles Kingsley +to throw up his cap and shout ‘Go it, our side!’ ‘Down +with the Pope!’</p> +<p><a name="footnote49"></a><a href="#citation49">{49}</a> Borrow’s +personal appearance, as we know from the later portrait by his most +intimate friend, Dr. Thomas Gordon Hake, must have been sufficiently +striking at any period of his life. “His figure was tall +and his bearing very noble. He had a finely moulded head and thick +white hair—white from his youth; his brown eyes were soft, yet +piercing; his mouth had a generous curve—his nose was somewhat +of the Semitic type, which gave his face the cast of a young Memnon.” +This is confirmed by the assurance in <i>Lavengro</i> that a famous +heroic painter was extremely anxious to secure Don Jorge as a model +for the face and figure of Pharaoh!</p> +<p><a name="footnote52"></a><a href="#citation52">{52}</a> “I +am not cunning. If people think I am it is because, being made +up of art themselves, simplicity of character is a puzzle to them.”—<i>Romany +Rye</i>, chap. xi.</p> +<p><a name="footnote61"></a><a href="#citation61">{61}</a> <i>Gypsy +lad</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote62"></a><a href="#citation62">{62}</a> <i>Blacksmith</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote63a"></a><a href="#citation63a">{63a}</a> +<i>Tell fortunes</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote63b"></a><a href="#citation63b">{63b}</a> +Hill Tower: <i>i.e.</i> Norwich.</p> +<p><a name="footnote63c"></a><a href="#citation63c">{63c}</a> +<i>Farewell</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote64"></a><a href="#citation64">{64}</a> <i>Blacksmith</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote65a"></a><a href="#citation65a">{65a}</a> +<i>Smith</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote65b"></a><a href="#citation65b">{65b}</a> +The “Wayland Smith” referred to in <i>Kenilworth</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote67a"></a><a href="#citation67a">{67a}</a> +<i>Horse</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote67b"></a><a href="#citation67b">{67b}</a> +<i>Horseshoe</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote67c"></a><a href="#citation67c">{67c}</a> +<i>Striking</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote69a"></a><a href="#citation69a">{69a}</a> +<i>Horse</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote69b"></a><a href="#citation69b">{69b}</a> +<i>Knife</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote69c"></a><a href="#citation69c">{69c}</a> +<i>Hoof</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote69d"></a><a href="#citation69d">{69d}</a> +<i>Horseshoe nail</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote69e"></a><a href="#citation69e">{69e}</a> +<i>Great file</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote69f"></a><a href="#citation69f">{69f}</a> +<i>Tool box</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote71"></a><a href="#citation71">{71}</a> <i>Poison</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote82"></a><a href="#citation82">{82}</a> <i>Gipsy +chap</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote84a"></a><a href="#citation84a">{84a}</a> +<i>Going to the village one day</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote84b"></a><a href="#citation84b">{84b}</a> +<i>Road my gypsy lass</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote86"></a><a href="#citation86">{86}</a> Mort, +<i>i.e.</i>, woman, concubine, a cant term.</p> +<p><a name="footnote87"></a><a href="#citation87">{87}</a> <i>Again</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote90a"></a><a href="#citation90a">{90a}</a> +<i>Old man</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote90b"></a><a href="#citation90b">{90b}</a> +<i>Wretch</i>, <i>hussy</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote91"></a><a href="#citation91">{91}</a> An +old word for knife, used by Urquhart and also by Burns.</p> +<p><a name="footnote93a"></a><a href="#citation93a">{93a}</a> +<i>Carcase</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote93b"></a><a href="#citation93b">{93b}</a> +<i>Knife</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote94a"></a><a href="#citation94a">{94a}</a> +<i>Donkey</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote94b"></a><a href="#citation94b">{94b}</a> +<i>Lad</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote106"></a><a href="#citation106">{106}</a> +The main characters in <i>Lavengro</i> are three: the scholar (Borrow +himself), the gypsy (Mr. Petulengro), and the priest, or popish propagandist. +This last is the man in black. The word-master has in the course +of his travels heard a good deal about this man, and he is able to identify +him almost at once by his predilection for gin and water, cold, with +a lump of sugar in it. He hears of him first from his London friend, +Francis Ardry, then from an Armenian merchant whom he met in London, +and then again from a brother-author, who describes a silly and intrusive +Anglican parson, called Platitude, as a puppet in the hands of “the +man in black.” The latter he characterises as a sharking +priest, who has come over from Italy to proselytize and plunder; he +has “some powers of conversation and some learning, but he carries +the countenance of an arch-villain; Platitude is evidently his tool.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote107"></a><a href="#citation107">{107}</a> +When Borrow (Lavengro, that is), was in London, his friend Francis Ardry +warned him against a certain papistical propagandist: “A strange +fellow—a half Italian, half English priest . . . he is fond of +a glass of gin and water—and over a glass of gin and water cold, +with a lump of sugar in it, he has been more communicative, perhaps, +than was altogether prudent. Were I my own master, I would kick +him, politics and religious movements, to a considerable distance.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote110"></a><a href="#citation110">{110}</a> +During his travels after his abandonment of Grub Street, “Lavengro” +frequently came upon the traces of the man in black. While sojourning +for one night with a hospitable though superstitious acquaintance, whom +he met after leaving Salisbury, “Lavengro” heard the story +of the Rev. Mr. Platitude, a sacerdotalist of weak intellects who had +been cajoled from his lawful allegiance to the “good, quiet Church +of England,” by the wiles of a sharking priest come over from +Italy to proselytize and to plunder. From what he then heard of +the sharking priest, by putting two and two together, Lavengro was now +able to identify him with the “man in black.” Subsequently +he heard of the efforts of the same clever dialectician to overcome +the Methodist preacher Peter Williams—efforts which collapsed +upon the appearance of the preacher’s wife Winifred. “Wife, +wife,” muttered the disconcerted priest, “if the fool has +a wife he will never do for us.” In the course of his wanderings +this nineteenth-century S. Augustine often gave himself out to be a +teacher of elocution.</p> +<p><a name="footnote117"></a><a href="#citation117">{117}</a> +The man in black was completely mystified by the knowledge of his own +past life which this remark revealed (see Chap. IX. <i>infra.</i>). +There were, as have been seen, a variety of threads connecting the man +in black with definite scenes in the memory of Lavengro, though the +latter did not happen to have seen the “prowling priest” +in the flesh before this occasion. While in London Lavengro frequently +met a certain Armenian merchant, who much resented the pretensions of +the Roman Papa: that he, the Papa, had more to say in heaven than the +Armenian patriarch, and that the hillocks of Rome were higher than the +ridges of Ararat. “The Papa of Rome,” said the Armenian +to Lavengro, “has at present many emissaries in this country, +in order to seduce the people from their own quiet religion to the savage +heresy of Rome; this fellow” (describing the man in black) “came +to me partly in the hope of converting me, but principally to extort +money for the purpose of furthering the designs of Rome in this country. +I humoured the fellow at first, keeping him in play for nearly a month, +deceiving and laughing at him. At last he discovered that he could +make nothing of me, and departed with the scowl of Caiaphas, whilst +I cried after him, ‘The roots of Ararat are <i>deeper</i> than +those of Rome.’”</p> +<p>This same Armenian subsequently offered Lavengro a desk in his office +opposite his deaf Moldavian clerk, having surmised that he would make +an excellent merchant because he squinted like a true Armenian. +Unhappily for the Flaming Tinman and for Isopel Berners, the word-master +refused this singular offer.</p> +<p><a name="footnote118"></a><a href="#citation118">{118}</a> +A passado at Belle’s avowed weakness for that beverage.</p> +<p><a name="footnote125a"></a><a href="#citation125a">{125a}</a> +<i>A strange listens</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote125b"></a><a href="#citation125b">{125b}</a> +<i>Up yonder</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote153"></a><a href="#citation153">{153}</a> +The Catholic controversy was just at its height in 1825, and the Catholic +Emancipation Bill received the Royal Assent in April 1829.</p> +<p><a name="footnote156"></a><a href="#citation156">{156}</a> +The doctrine of economy in a nutshell.</p> +<p><a name="footnote159"></a><a href="#citation159">{159}</a> +For Borrow’s final verdict on Sir Walter Scott, it is only fair +to cite his <i>Romano Lavo-Lil</i>, a book on the English Gypsy Language, +corresponding to his book on the <i>Zincali</i> or Spanish Gypsies, +but published more than forty years later, namely in 1874. Here +he relates how he once trudged to Dryburgh “to pay my respects +at the tomb of Sir Walter Scott, a man with whose principles I have +no sympathy, but for whose genius I have always entertained the most +intense admiration.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote218"></a><a href="#citation218">{218}</a> +The story of Mumbo Jumbo and the English servant in Rome is that narrated +at great length by the postillion in the last chapter of <i>Lavengro</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote227"></a><a href="#citation227">{227}</a> +See the third Appendix to <i>Romany Rye</i> on this subject of “Foreign +Nonsense.” For Wolseley’s perversion see <i>Dict. +Nat. Biog.</i>, lxii., p. 323.</p> +<p><a name="footnote230"></a><a href="#citation230">{230}</a> +A blasphemous work by Albizzi. French version printed, Geneva, +1556.</p> +<p><a name="footnote237"></a><a href="#citation237">{237}</a> +His deeds were not those of lions, but of foxes.</p> +<p><a name="footnote238a"></a><a href="#citation238a">{238a}</a> +“Archibald Arbuthnot: Life, Adventures, and Vicissitudes of Simon +[Fraser] Lord Lovat.” London, 1746, 12mo.</p> +<p><a name="footnote238b"></a><a href="#citation238b">{238b}</a> +For later news of the red-haired Jack-priest and his dupe, Parson Platitude, +see <i>Romany Rye</i>, chap. xxvii.</p> +<p><a name="footnote242"></a><a href="#citation242">{242}</a> +Plenty of gypsy lads; chals and chies, lads and lasses.</p> +<p><a name="footnote244a"></a><a href="#citation244a">{244a}</a> +<i>Modest</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote244b"></a><a href="#citation244b">{244b}</a> +<i>Gentlemen and ladies</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote244c"></a><a href="#citation244c">{244c}</a> +Drop it.</p> +<p><a name="footnote247"></a><a href="#citation247">{247}</a> +The Petulengres, a wandering clan of gypsies, led by Jasper Petulengro +and his wife Pakomovna are introduced to us in <i>Lavengro</i> (chaps, +v. and liv.). The etymology is thus explained by Borrow. +“Petulengro: A compound of the modern Greek πεταλον +and the Sanscrit <i>kara</i>; the literal meaning being lord of the +horse-shoe (<i>i.e.</i> maker), it is one of the private cognominations +of ‘the Smiths,’ an English gypsy clan.” Engro +is apparently akin to the English suffix monger, and with it may be +compared the Anglo-Saxon suffix smith, in such words as lore-smith or +war-smith (warrior). Thus we have sapengro, lavengro, and sherengro, +head man. Of the gypsy tribes in England, Borrow in his <i>Zincali</i> +(ed. 1846, Introd.) has the following: “The principal gypsy tribes +at present in existence are the Stanleys, whose grand haunt is the New +Forest; the Lovells, who are fond of London and its vicinity: the Coopers, +who call Windsor Castle their home; the Hernes, to whom the north country, +more especially Yorkshire, belongeth; and lastly my brethren the Smiths, +to whom East Anglia appears to have been allotted from the beginning. +All these families have gypsy names, which seem, however, to be little +more than attempts at translation of the English ones. Thus the +Stanleys are called Bar-engres, which means stony fellows, the Coopers, +Wardo-engres or wheelwrights, the Lovells, Camo-mescres, or amorous +fellows, the Hernes (German Haaren), Balors, hairs, or hairy fellows, +while the Smiths are called Petulengres, that is, horseshoe-fellows, +or blacksmiths. Besides the above-named gypsy clans, there are +other smaller ones, some of which do not comprise more than a dozen +individuals, children included. For example, the Bosviles, the +Browns, the Chilcotts, the Grays, Lees, Taylors and Whites; of these +the principal is the Bosvile tribe.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote249a"></a><a href="#citation249a">{249a}</a> +There’s a witch and a wizard and their name is Petulengro.</p> +<p><a name="footnote249b"></a><a href="#citation249b">{249b}</a> +<i>Tent</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote256"></a><a href="#citation256">{256}</a> +This refers to a notorious match between a lion and six mastiffs, arranged +by George Wombwell at Warwick, in July 1825. The fight was that +between George Cooper and Ned Baldwin, 5 July, 1825.</p> +<p><a name="footnote257"></a><a href="#citation257">{257}</a> +Peel’s Metropolitan Police, constituted 1829.</p> +<p><a name="footnote265"></a><a href="#citation265">{265}</a> +Said the gypsy lass to her mother—<br /> +‘My dear mother, I am with child.’<br /> +‘And what kind of a man made you with child,<br /> +My own daughter, my gypsy lass?’</p> +<p>‘O my mother, a great gentleman,<br /> +A rich gentleman, a stranger to our race,<br /> +Who rides upon a fine stallion,<br /> +’Twas he that made me thus with child.’</p> +<p>‘Vile little harlot that you are,<br /> +Be off, good-bye, you leave my tent!<br /> +Had a Romany lad got thee with child,<br /> +Then I had said to thee, poor lass!<br /> +But thou art just a vile harlot<br /> +By a stranger man to be with child.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote266"></a><a href="#citation266">{266}</a> +<i>Pig-poisoning</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote269a"></a><a href="#citation269a">{269a}</a> +<i>Honeycomb</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote269b"></a><a href="#citation269b">{269b}</a> +<i>Tell their fortunes</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote272"></a><a href="#citation272">{272}</a> +<i>King</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote274"></a><a href="#citation274">{274}</a> +See Introduction, p. 10.</p> +<p><a name="footnote275"></a><a href="#citation275">{275}</a> +The church of Willenhall, Staffordshire, near Mumpers’ Dingle, +is, perhaps, intended. The hymn was originally Cennick’s, +but the verse in question Charles Wesley’s. The old tune +Helmsley (not St. Thomas) was a favourite of Queen Victoria.</p> +<p><a name="footnote277"></a><a href="#citation277">{277}</a> +Chieftain.</p> +<p><a name="footnote286"></a><a href="#citation286">{286}</a> +Dukkerin, fortune-telling: duk or dook, ghost.</p> +<p><a name="footnote288"></a><a href="#citation288">{288}</a> +See Introduction, p. 9.</p> +<p><a name="footnote289"></a><a href="#citation289">{289}</a> +The Shakespearean meaning was hysterical passion. See <i>Lear</i>, +II., iv. 52:</p> +<blockquote><p>“O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The word remained fairly common during the seventeenth century. +Mary Rich, Countess of Warwick, in her Diary (1667) speaks of herself +as suffering from “a fit of the spleen and mother together.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote290"></a><a href="#citation290">{290}</a> +<i>Stranger men</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote291"></a><a href="#citation291">{291}</a> +Ursula is evidently intended by Borrow to typify the gypsy chi. +And the key to the type is supplied in the <i>Gypsies in Spain</i> (see +especially chap. vii.). The gypsies, says Borrow, arc almost entirely +ignorant of the grand points of morality; but on one point they are +in general wiser than those who have had far better opportunities than +such unfortunate outcasts of regulating their steps and distinguishing +good from evil. They know that chastity is a jewel of high price, +and that conjugal fidelity is capable of occasionally flinging a sunshine +even over the dreary hours of a life passed in the contempt of almost +all laws, whether human or divine. There is a word in the gypsy +language to which those who speak it attach ideas of peculiar reverence, +far superior to that connected with the name of the Supreme Being, the +creator of themselves and the universe. This word is <i>Lácha</i>, +which with them is the corporeal chastity of the females; we say corporeal +chastity, for no other do they hold in the slightest esteem; it is lawful +among them, nay praiseworthy, to be obscene in look, gesture and discourse, +to be accessories to vice, and to stand by and laugh at the worst abominations +of the Busné (gorgios, or gentiles) provided their <i>Lácha +ye trupos</i>, or corporeal chastity, remains unblemished. The +gypsy child, from her earliest years, is told by her strange mother +that a good Calli need only dread one thing in this world, and that +is the loss of her <i>Lácha</i>, in comparison with which that +of life is of little consequence, as in such an event she will be provided +for, but what provision is there for a gypsy who has lost her <i>Lácha</i>. +“Bear this in mind, my child,” she will say, “and +now eat this bread and go forth and see what you can steal.” +The Romany, in a word, is the sect of the Husbands (and Wives) and their +first precept is this: Be faithful to the <i>Roms</i> (husbands) and +take not up with the gorgios, whether they be raior (gentlemen) or baior +(fellows).</p> +<p><a name="footnote293"></a><a href="#citation293">{293}</a> +<i>Godly book</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote295a"></a><a href="#citation295a">{295a}</a> +Chore, to steal.</p> +<p><a name="footnote295b"></a><a href="#citation295b">{295b}</a> +Hokkawar, to cheat.</p> +<p><a name="footnote295c"></a><a href="#citation295c">{295c}</a> +Lubbeny, the whore.</p> +<p><a name="footnote296"></a><a href="#citation296">{296}</a> +<i>God</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote298"></a><a href="#citation298">{298}</a> +Choomer, a kiss.</p> +<p><a name="footnote299a"></a><a href="#citation299a">{299a}</a> +<i>Uncle</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote299b"></a><a href="#citation299b">{299b}</a> +<i>Father</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote301"></a><a href="#citation301">{301}</a> +Batu, father; coko, uncle.</p> +<p><a name="footnote302a"></a><a href="#citation302a">{302a}</a> +<i>Law</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote302b"></a><a href="#citation302b">{302b}</a> +<i>With child</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote303"></a><a href="#citation303">{303}</a> +Tan, tent.</p> +<p><a name="footnote305"></a><a href="#citation305">{305}</a> +<i>Tent</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote306"></a><a href="#citation306">{306}</a> +Old Fulcher was an amateur in the meanest kinds of petty larceny whose +deplorable end is described in chapter xli. of the <i>Romany Rye</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote307"></a><a href="#citation307">{307}</a> +The boxer who lost the fight near the Castle Hill (Norwich).</p> +<p><a name="footnote312"></a><a href="#citation312">{312}</a> +Poknees, magistrate.</p> +<p><a name="footnote318"></a><a href="#citation318">{318}</a> +<i>Steal</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote326"></a><a href="#citation326">{326}</a> +See Introduction, p. 9. This is the book the MS. of which Lavengro +sold for £20, and upon the proceeds of which he started upon the +ramble which led him to the dingle. The <i>Life of Joseph Sell</i> +is not known to Bibliography; but the incident is nevertheless probably +drawn from Borrow’s own career.</p> +<p><a name="footnote330"></a><a href="#citation330">{330}</a> +“Good.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote337"></a><a href="#citation337">{337}</a> +The next time the compassionate word-master visited the landlord, he +found him a ‘down pin’ no longer, but the centre of an adulatory +crowd. The way in which he surmounted the sea of troubles that +beset him is described with much humour in <i>The Romany Rye</i> (chap. +xvii). The main factors in his relief were (1) Strong ale, taken +by the advice of Lavengro, which leads to Catchpole knocking down the +radical, Hunter, and winning back the admiration of the tap-room, (2) +a loan from the parson of Willenhall, who wished to save a muscular +fellow-Protestant from the clutches of the man in black. The brewer +now became very civil, a coach was appointed to stop at the inn, and, +in short, Catchpole is left by Lavengro riding upon the summit of the +wave of popularity and good fortune.</p> +<p><a name="footnote343"></a><a href="#citation343">{343}</a> +Jacobus Villotte, his <i>Dictionarium Latino-Armenium</i>, Rome, 1714.</p> +<p><a name="footnote348"></a><a href="#citation348">{348}</a> +And this, alas! is the last glimpse we are to have of Isopel Berners, +a heroine whose like we shall scarce encounter again in the whole wide +world of romance. Charles Kingsley says of her, indeed, that she +is far too good not to be true. The likeness is undoubtedly a +masterpiece, yet, though Borrow has drawn the outline firmly, he leaves +much for the imagination to fill in. Languid indeed must be the +imagination that can fail to be stimulated by Borrow’s outline +of his Brynhilda. Cast in the mould of Britannia, queen, however, +not of the waves but of the woodland, poor yet noble, and innocent of +every mean ambition of gentility, faithful, valiant, and proud,—as +she stands pale and commanding, in the sunshine at the dingle’s +mouth, in all her virginal dignity, is she not a figure worthy to rank +with the queens of Beauty and Romance, with Dido “with a willow +in her hand,” with the deeply-loving Rebecca as with a calm and +tender dignity she bids for ever adieu to the land of Wilfred of Ivanhoe?</p> +<p><a name="footnote361"></a><a href="#citation361">{361}</a> +After the receipt of this letter three nights elapsed, and then the +word-master himself left the dingle for the last time. The third +night he spent alone in his encampment “in a very melancholy manner, +with little or no sleep, thinking of Isopel Berners; and in the morning +when I quitted the place, I shed several tears, as I reflected that +I should probably never again see the spot where I had passed so many +hours in her company.”</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ISOPEL BERNERS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 18400-h.htm or 18400-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/4/0/18400 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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