

Transcribed from the 1907 John Murray edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org

                          [Picture: Book cover]

                         [Picture: East Dereham]





                              THE ROMANY RYE
                          A SEQUEL TO “LAVENGRO”


                                * * * * *

                             BY GEORGE BORROW

                                * * * * *

                  A NEW EDITION CONTAINING THE UNALTERED
                     TEXT OF THE ORIGINAL ISSUE, WITH
                      NOTES.  ETC., BY THE AUTHOR OF
                       “THE LIFE OF GEORGE BORROW”

                                * * * * *

                                  LONDON
                      JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
                                   1907

FIRST EDITION                                           1857
SECOND EDITION                                          1858
THIRD EDITION                                           1872
FOURTH EDITION                                          1888
FIFTH EDITION                                           1896
SIXTH (DEFINITIVE) EDITION        6/-          _March_, 1900
_Reprinted_                                     _June_, 1903
_Reprinted_                    Thin Paper       _Aug._, 1905
_Reprinted_                       6/-           _Oct._, 1906
_Reprinted_                                    _Sept._, 1907
_Reprinted_                     2/6 net        _Sept._, 1907

    [Picture: The original title page of the first volume of the first
         edition of Romany Rye, published by John Murray in 1857]




ADVERTISEMENT.
(1857.)


IT having been frequently stated in print that the book called _Lavengro_
was got up expressly against the popish agitation in the years 1850–51,
the author takes this opportunity of saying that the principal part of
that book was written in the year ’43, that the whole of it was completed
before the termination of the year ’46, and that it was in the hands of
the publisher in the year ’48. {0a}  And here he cannot forbear
observing, that it was the duty of that publisher to have rebutted a
statement which he knew to be a calumny; and also to have set the public
right on another point dealt with in the Appendix to the present work,
more especially as he was the proprietor of a Review enjoying, however
undeservedly, a certain sale and reputation.

          But take your own part, boy!
    For if you don’t, no one will take it for you.

With respect to _Lavengro_, the author feels that he has no reason to be
ashamed of it.  In writing that book he did his duty, by pointing out to
his country-people the nonsense which, to the greater part of them, is as
the breath of their nostrils, and which, if indulged in, as it probably
will be, to the same extent as hitherto, will, within a very few years,
bring the land which he most loves beneath a foreign yoke—he does not
here allude to the yoke of Rome.

Instead of being ashamed, has he not rather cause to be proud of a book
which has had the honour of being rancorously abused and execrated by the
very people of whom the country has least reason to be proud? {0b}

                                * * * * *

    “One day Cogia Efendy went to a bridal festival.  The masters of the
    feast, observing his old and coarse apparel, paid him no
    consideration whatever.  The Cogia saw that he had no chance of
    notice; so going out, he hurried to his house, and, putting on a
    splendid pelisse, returned to the place of festival.  No sooner did
    he enter the door than the masters advanced to meet him, and saying,
    ‘Welcome, Cogia Efendy,’ with all imaginable honour and reverence,
    placed him at the head of the table, and said, ‘Please to eat, Lord
    Cogia’.  Forthwith the Cogia, taking hold of one of the furs of his
    pelisse, said, ‘Welcome my pelisse; please to eat, my lord’.  The
    masters looking at the Cogia with great surprise, said, ‘What are you
    about?’  Whereupon the Cogia replied, ‘As it is quite evident that
    all the honour paid, is paid to my pelisse, I think it ought to have
    some food too’.”—PLEASANTRIES OF THE COGIA NASR EDDIN EFENDI.




CONTENTS.

                                                                  PAGE
                              CHAPTER I.
The Making of the Linch-pin—The Sound Sleeper—Breakfast—The          1
Postillion’s Departure
                             CHAPTER II.
The Man in Black—The Emperor of Germany—Nepotism—Donna               5
Olympia—Omnipotence—Camillo Astalli—The Five Propositions
                             CHAPTER III.
Necessity of Religion—The Great Indian                               9
One—Image-worship—Shakespeare—The Pat Answer—Krishna—Amen
                             CHAPTER IV.
The Proposal—The Scotch Novel—Latitude—Miracles—Pestilent           16
Heretics—Old Fraser—Wonderful Texts—No Armenian
                              CHAPTER V.
Fresh Arrivals—Pitching the Tent—Certificated                       28
Wife—High-flying Notions
                             CHAPTER VI.
The Promised Visit—Roman Fashion—Wizard and Witch—Catching          32
at Words—The Two Females—Dressing of Hair—The New
Roads—Belle’s Altered Appearance—Herself Again
                             CHAPTER VII.
The Festival—The Gypsy Song—Piramus of Rome—The                     40
Scotchman—Gypsy Names
                            CHAPTER VIII.
The Church—The Aristocratical Pew—Days of Yore—The                  48
Clergyman—“In what would a Man be Profited?”
                             CHAPTER IX.
Return from Church—The Cuckoo and Gypsy—Spiritual Discourse         53
                              CHAPTER X.
Sunday Evening—Ursula—Action at Law—Meridiana—Married               60
Already
                             CHAPTER XI.
Ursula’s Tale—The Patteran—The Deep Water—Second Husband            72
                             CHAPTER XII.
The Dingle at Night—The Two Sides of the Question—Roman             78
Females—Filling the Kettle—The Dream—The Tall Figure
                            CHAPTER XIII.
Visit to the Landlord—His Mortifications—Hunter and his             86
Clan—Resolution
                             CHAPTER XIV.
Preparations for the Fair—The Last Lesson—The Verb _Siriel_         89
                             CHAPTER XV.
The Dawn of Day—The Last Farewell—Departure for the                 95
Fair—The Fine Horse—Return to the Dingle—No Isopel
                             CHAPTER XVI.
Gloomy Forebodings—The Postman’s Mother—The Letter—Bears            99
and Barons—The Best of Advice
                            CHAPTER XVII.
The Public-house—Landlord on His Legs Again—A Blow in              106
Season—The Way of the World—The Grateful Mind—The Horse’s
Neigh
                            CHAPTER XVIII.
Mr. Petulengro’s Device—The Leathern Purse—Consent to              113
Purchase a Horse
                             CHAPTER XIX.
Trying the Horse—The Feats of Tawno—Man with the Red               117
Waistcoat—Disposal of Property
                             CHAPTER XX.
Farewell to the Romans—The Landlord and his Niece—Set out          122
as a Traveller
                             CHAPTER XXI.
An Adventure on the Roads—The Six Flint Stones—A Rural             124
Scene—Mead—The Old Man and his Bees
                            CHAPTER XXII.
The Singular Noise—Sleeping in a Meadow—The Book—Cure for          131
Wakefulness—Literary Tea Party—Poor Byron
                            CHAPTER XXIII.
Drivers and Front Outside Passengers—Fatigue of Body and           136
Mind—Unexpected Greeting—My Inn—The Governor—Engagement
                            CHAPTER XXIV.
An Inn of Times gone by—A First-rate Publican—Hay and              140
Corn—Old-fashioned Ostler—Highwaymen—Mounted
Police—Grooming
                             CHAPTER XXV.
Stable Hartshorn—How to Manage a Horse on a Journey—Your           145
Best Friend
                            CHAPTER XXVI.
The Stage-coachmen of England—A Bully Served                       150
Out—Broughton’s Guard—The Brasen Head
                            CHAPTER XXVII.
Francis Ardry—His Misfortunes—Dog and Lion Fight—Great Men         158
of the World
                           CHAPTER XXVIII.
Mr. Platitude and the Man in Black—The Postillion’s                163
Adventures—The Lone House—A Goodly Assemblage
                            CHAPTER XXIX.
Deliberations with Self—Resolution—Invitation to Dinner—The        170
Commercial Traveller—The Landlord’s Offer—The Comet Wine
                             CHAPTER XXX.
Triumphal Departure—No Season like Youth—Extreme Old               175
Age—Beautiful England—The Ratcatcher—A Misadventure
                            CHAPTER XXXI.
Novel Situation—The Elderly Individual—The Surgeon—A Kind          179
Offer—Chimerical Ideas—Strange Dream
                            CHAPTER XXXII.
The Morning after a Fall—The Teapot—Unpretending                   185
Hospitality—The Chinese Student
                           CHAPTER XXXIII.
Convalescence—The Surgeon’s Bill—Letter of                         191
Recommendation—Commencement of the Old Man’s History
                            CHAPTER XXXIV.
The Old Man’s Story continued—Misery in the Head—The               201
Strange Marks—Tea-dealer from London—Difficulties of the
Chinese Language
                            CHAPTER XXXV.
The Leave-taking—Spirit of the Hearth—What’s o’Clock               209
                            CHAPTER XXXVI.
Arrival at Horncastle—The Inn and Ostlers—The Garret—The           211
Figure of a Man with a Candle
                           CHAPTER XXXVII.
Horncastle Fair                                                    214
                           CHAPTER XXXVIII.
High Dutch                                                         221
                            CHAPTER XXXIX.
The Hungarian                                                      223
                             CHAPTER XL.
The Horncastle Welcome—Tzernebock and Bielebock                    238
                             CHAPTER XLI.
The Jockey’s Tale—Thieves’ Latin—Liberties with Coin—The           244
Smasher in Prison—Old Fulcher—Every one has his
Gift—Fashion of the English
                            CHAPTER XLII.
A Short-tempered Person—Gravitation—The Best Endowment—Mary        258
Fulcher—Fair Dealing—Horse-witchery—Darius and his
Groom—The Jockey’s Tricks—The Two Characters—The Jockey’s
Song
                            CHAPTER XLIII.
The Church                                                         273
                            CHAPTER XLIV.
An Old Acquaintance                                                276
                             CHAPTER XLV.
Murtagh’s Tale                                                     283
                            CHAPTER XLVI.
Murtagh’s Story continued—The Priest, Exorcist, and                290
Thimble-engro—How to Check a Rebellion
                            CHAPTER XLVII.
Departure from Horncastle—Recruiting Sergeant—Kauloes and          300
Lolloes
                              * * * * *
                              APPENDIX.
                              CHAPTER I.
A Word for _Lavengro_                                              302
                             CHAPTER II.
On Priestcraft                                                     310
                             CHAPTER III.
On Foreign Nonsense                                                317
                             CHAPTER IV.
On Gentility Nonsense—Illustrations of Gentility                   320
                              CHAPTER V.
Subject of Gentility continued                                     323
                             CHAPTER VI.
On Scotch Gentility Nonsense—Charlie o’er the Waterism             334
                             CHAPTER VII.
Same subject continued                                             341
                            CHAPTER VIII.
On Canting Nonsense                                                346
                             CHAPTER IX.
Pseudo-Critics                                                     354
                              CHAPTER X.
Pseudo-Radicals                                                    362
                             CHAPTER XI.
The Old Radical                                                    368
                              * * * * *
Editor’s Notes                                                     379
Gypsy List                                                         389
Bibliography                                                       393




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

East Dereham, Norfolk (referred to as “Pretty           _Frontispiece_
D—,” George Borrow’s Birthplace)
(_photogravure_)
The Old Church, St. Giles, at Willenhall,            _To face page_ 48
Staffordshire (rebuilt 1867)
Porch of St. Nicholas Church, East Dereham                          50
The Old “Bull’s Head,” Wolverhampton Street,                       106
Willenhall
The “Swan” Inn, Stafford (“My Inn—a very large                     136
Building with an Archway”)
High Street, Horncastle                                            215
The Horse Fair, Horncastle                                         220
Horncastle Church in 1820 (since restored)                         273




CHAPTER I.


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 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.

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 the 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, 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,
thunder-storm, 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-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 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”.

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 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.

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.




CHAPTER II.


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.

“Urban the Eighth then occupied the papal chair, of the family of the
Barbarini, nicknamed the _Mosche_, 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.

“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 Barbarini family two hundred and
twenty-seven governments, abbeys and high dignities, and so much hard
cash in their possession, that three score 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.

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 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.

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.

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 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
stedfastly, 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 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.”

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 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.




CHAPTER III.


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.

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 their 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 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.

“You told me that you intended to be frank,” said I; “but, however frank
you may be, I think you are rather wild.”

“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, 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.”

“Did they find Christ?” said I.

“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.”

“All this is very mysterious to me,” said I.

“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.”

“But how?” I demanded.

“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 Mezzofanti, 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—”

“All of one religion,” I put in.

“All of one religion,” said the man in black; “and now follow different
modifications of the same religion.”

“We Christians are not image-worshippers,” said I.

“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.”

“I have indeed no conception of it,” said I; “I have an abhorrence of
idolatry—the idea of bowing before a graven figure!”

“The idea, indeed!” said Belle, who had now joined us.

“Did you never bow before that of Shakespeare?” said the man in black,
addressing himself to me, after a low bow to Belle.

“I don’t remember that I ever did,” said I; “but even suppose I did?”

“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 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 Anthony
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.”

“Do you think,” said I, “that Shakespeare’s works would not exist without
his image?”

“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.”

“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?”

“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, 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 Guérin, 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?”

“I never heard their names before,” said I.

“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_.”

“I wonder you should ever have troubled yourself with Christ at all,”
said I.

“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 Judea, and from Judea 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 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.”

“I thought,” said I, “you stated a little time ago that the Popish
religion and the ancient Roman are the same?”

“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?”

“Why, we Protestants regard his words, and endeavour to practise what
they enjoin as much as possible.”

“But you reject his image,” said the man in black; “better reject his
words than his image: no religion can exist long which rejects a good
bodily image.  Why, the very <DW64> 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—”

“Mumbo Jumbo,” said I; “I know all about him already.”

“How came you to know anything about him?” said the man in black, with a
look of some surprise.

“Some of us poor Protestant tinkers,” said I, “though we live in dingles,
are also acquainted with a thing or two.”

“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.”

“It would be quite unnecessary,” said I; “I would much sooner hear you
talk about Krishna, his words and image.”

“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!”

“I believe you occasionally quote his words?” said I.

“He! he!” said the man in black; “occasionally.”

“For example,” said I, “upon this rock I will found my Church.”

“He! he!” said the man in black; “you must really become one of us.”

“Yet you must have had some difficulty in getting the rock to Rome?”

“None whatever,” said the man in black; “faith can remove mountains, to
say nothing of rocks—ho! ho!”

“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.”

“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.”

“You do not mean to say that He intended they should actually eat His
body?”

“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.”

“But what has the New Testament to do with heathen customs,” said I,
“except to destroy them?”

“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 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.”

I made no answer.

“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.”

“And what is the meaning of the word?” I demanded.

“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_, _Omani batsikhom_, and the Ave Maria and
Amen Jesus of our own idiotical devotees.”

“I have nothing to say about the Ave Marias and Amens of your
superstitious devotees,” said I; “I dare say 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’.”

“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?”

“I shall do no such thing,” said Belle, “you have drunk quite enough, and
talked more than enough, and to tell you the truth, I wish you would
leave us alone.”

“Shame on you, Belle,” said I, “consider the obligations of hospitality.”

“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.”

“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.”

“I am sorry for it,” said the man in black; “if she is angry with me, I
am not so with her, and shall be always proud to wait upon her; in the
meantime, I will wait upon myself.”




CHAPTER IV.


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?”

“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.”

“Would you enlist my companion as well?” I demanded.

“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.

“Before we give you an answer,” I replied, “I would fain know more about
you; perhaps you will declare your name?”

“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, _Sono un Prete Cattolico Appostolico_—that is all that many a one
of us can say for himself, and it assuredly means a great deal.”

“We will now proceed to business,” said I.  “You must be aware that we
English are generally considered a self-interested people.”

“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 to 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 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
seaport, 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.”

“And in what manner would you provide for my companion?” said I.

“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;
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.

“Well, Belle,” said I, “what have you to say to the gentleman’s
proposal?”

“That if he goes on in this way I will break his glass against his
mouth.”

“You have heard the lady’s answer,” said I.

“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, _connubio
stabili_, as I suppose the knot has not been tied already.”

“Hold your mumping gibberish,” said Belle, “and leave the dingle this
moment, for though ’t is free to every one, you have no right to insult
me in it.”

“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.”

“I should wish to have your answer to my proposal first,” said he.

“Well, then, here you shall have it: I will not entertain your proposal;
I detest your schemes: they are both wicked and foolish.”

“Wicked,” said the man in black, “have they not—he! he!—the furtherance
of religion in view?”

“A religion,” said I, “in which you yourself do not believe, and which
you contemn.”

“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 who presided over the first 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 make 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.  Some admire the French, and imitate them; others must needs be
Spaniards, dress themselves up in a _zamarra_, stick a cigar in their
mouth, and say, _c—jo_.  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 <DW7>s, the good folks must become <DW7>s also, or, at least,
papistically inclined.  The very Scotch Presbyterians, since they have
read the novels, are become all but <DW7>s; I speak advisedly, having
lately been amongst them.  There’s a trumpery bit of a half-<DW7> 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 heard them myself repeating snatches of Jacobite ditties
about ‘Bonnie Dundee,’ and:—

    ‘Come, fill up my cup, and fill up my can,
    And saddle my horse, and call up my man.’

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?”

“Of course you have not a drop of Scotch blood in your veins,” said I,
“otherwise you would never have uttered that last sentence.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said the man in black; “you know little of
Popery if you imagine that it cannot extinguish love of country, even in
a Scotchman.  A thorough-going <DW7>—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.”

“One thing,” said I, “connected with you, I cannot understand; you call
yourself a thorough-going <DW7>, yet are continually saying the most
pungent things against Popery, and turning to unbounded ridicule those
who show any inclination to embrace it.”

“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 marketplace,
think not she is so unreasonable as to object to her faithful priests
occasionally calling her _puta_ in the dingle.”

“But,” said I, “suppose some one were to tell the world some of the
disorderly things which her priests say in the dingle?”

“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.  They believe in the _Alcoran des Cordeliers_—that is, those who
have read it; but they make no sign.”

“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.”

“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.”

“Can your Church work miracles?” I demanded.

“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 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?”

“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.”

“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.

“But they did not believe in the miracle?” said I.

“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!”

“I suppose your Church still performs miracles occasionally!” said I.

“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.”

“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 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.”

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 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.”

“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?”

“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
papas’ 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.”

And the man in black drained the last drop in his glass.

“Never,” said I, “will I become the slave of Rome.”

“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 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 —”

“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.”

“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.”

“I shall call her so,” said I, “without belonging to her, or asking her
permission.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.

“Are you not afraid,” said I, “to flash that watch before the eyes of a
poor tinker in a dingle?”

“Not before the eyes of one like you,” said the man in black.

“It is getting late,” said I; “I care not for perquisites.”

“So you will not join us?” said the man in black.

“You have had my answer,” said I.

“If I belong to Rome,” said the man in black, “why should not you?”

“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?”

The man in black winced, but almost immediately recovering himself, he
said: “Well, we can do without you, we are sure of winning.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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 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—”

“Who?” said the man in black, giving a start, and letting his glass fall.

“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 are 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 in
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?

    _L’opere sue non furon leonine, ma di volpe_.” {24}

The man in black sat silent for a considerable time, 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, _oimè_, Fraser blood.  My parents, at an
early age, took me to —, 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—; 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 — 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 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, _per Dio_!  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; _no hay remedio_, 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, 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.”

He then arose, and without further salutation departed from the dingle,
in which I never saw him again.  “How, in the name of wonder, came you to
know that man’s name?” said Belle, after he had been gone some time.

“I, Belle?  I knew nothing of the fellow’s name, I assure you.”

“But you mentioned his name.”

“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
discourses which I had heard from certain conceited individuals, but now
I begin to believe firmly; what wonderful texts there are in Scripture,
Belle!  ‘The wicked trembleth where—where—’”

“‘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?”

“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; but
enough of the fellow, Belle; let us now have tea, and after that—”

“No Armenian,” said Belle; “but I want to ask a question: pray are all
people of that man’s name either rogues or fools?”

“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 idiotcy, 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.”




CHAPTER V.


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 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 distant
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.

“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.”

“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.

“Good-day to you, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “you look, as usual,
charmingly, and speak so, too; you have not forgot your manners.”

“It is not all gold that glitters,” said Mrs. Chikno.  “However,
good-morrow to you, young rye.”

“I do not see Tawno,” said I, looking around; “where is he?”

“Where, indeed!” said Mrs. Chikno; “I don’t know; he who countenances him
in the roving line can best answer.”

“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.”

“I can’t, indeed,” said Mrs. Chikno.

“And why not, sister?”

“Because I place no confidence in your words, brother; as I said before,
you countenances him.”

“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.

“Is that young female your wife, young man?” said Mrs. Chikno.

“My wife?” said I.

“Yes, young man; your wife, your lawful certificated wife?”

“No,” said I; “she is not my wife.”

“Then I will not visit with her,” said Mrs. Chikno; “I countenance
nothing in the roving line.”

“What do you mean by the roving line?” I demanded.

“What do I mean by the roving line?  Why, by it I mean such conduct as is
not tatcheno.  When ryes and rawnies live together in dingles, without
being certificated, I call 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.”

“It is hard that people may not live in dingles together without being
suspected of doing wrong,” said I.

“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 seeks 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—”

“Mek lis,” said Mrs. Chikno, “pray drop all that, 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.”

“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—”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Chikno, “I see what I before thought, that it was
altogether in the uncertificated line.”

“Mek lis,” 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—”

“I suppose by talking of your four children you wish to check me for
having none,” said Mrs. Chikno 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—”

“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.”

“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.”

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 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.




CHAPTER VI.


ABOUT midday Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro 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 fire-place, 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, 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 whale-bone 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
_calañés_, 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.  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:—

    ‘There’s a chovahanee, and a chovahano,
    The nav se len is Petulengro’”.

“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.”

“True,” said Mr. Petulengro; “why bring what’s low to the dingle, which
is low enough already?”

“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.”

“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, not 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, when hankering after
my 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 attempts at
what they called wit almost as unfortunate as their countenances.”

“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.”

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 fire-place.  “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.”  So Belle and
I advanced towards our guests.  As 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 courtesy.  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!”

“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.”

“It is easier to knock him down with a look than with a fist,” said Mr.
Petulengro; “that is, if the 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—”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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, I would have come in them, in order
to do you more honour.”

“I like to see you much better as you are,” said Belle; “people should
keep to their own fashions, and yours is very pretty.”

“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.

“I really can do no such thing,” said Belle, withdrawing her hand; “I
thank you for coming to see me, but—”

“Do allow me to officiate upon your hair, madam,” said Mrs. Petulengro.
“I should esteem your allowing 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.”

“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.”

“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?”

“I have really a good mind to be angry with you,” said Belle, giving Mrs.
Petulengro a peculiar glance.

“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.”

“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 will oblige him.  My sister Ursula would
be very willing to oblige him in many things, but he will not ask her 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—”

“Why, here you are, after railing at me for catching at words, catching
at a word yourself,” said Mr. Petulengro.

“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.”

“I shall not do it to oblige him,” said Belle; “the young rye, as you
call him, is nothing to me.”

“Well, then, to oblige me,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “do allow me to become
your poor tire-woman.”

“It is great nonsense,” said Belle, reddening; “however, as you came to
see me, and ask the matter as a particular favour to yourself—”

“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 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.”

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?”

“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,
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.”

“Anything else?” said I.

“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, 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 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.”

“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 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.

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 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 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 stedfastly 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.




CHAPTER VII.


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 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.

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 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 gipsy song:—



POISONING THE PORKER.
BY MRS. CHIKNO.


    To mande shoon ye Romany chals
    Who besh in the pus about the yag,
    I’ll pen how we drab the baulo,
    I’ll pen how we drab the baulo.

    We jaws to the drab-engro ker,
    Trin hors-worth there of drab we lels,
    And when to the swety back we wels
    We pens we’ll drab the baulo,
    We’ll have a drab at the baulo.

    And then we kairs the drab opré,
    And then we jaws to the farming ker,
    To mang a beti habben,
    A beti poggado habben.

    A rinkeno baulo there we dick,
    And then we pens in Romano jib:
    “Wust lis odoi opré ye chick,
    And the baulo he will lel lis,
    The baulo he will lel lis”.

    Coliko, coliko saulo we
    Apopli to the farming ker
    Will wel and mang him mullo,
    Will wel and mang his truppo.

    And so we kairs, and so we kairs;
    The baulo in the rarde mers;
    We mang him on the saulo,
    And rig to the tan the baulo.

    And then we toves the wendror well
    Till sore the wendror iuziou se,
    Till kekkeno drab’s adrey lis,
    Till drab there’s kek adrey lis.

    And then his truppo well we hatch,
    Kin levinor at the kitchema,
    And have a kosko habben,
    A kosko Romano habben.

    The boshom engro kils, he kils,
    The tawnie juva gils, she gils
    A puro Romano gillie,
    Now shoon the Romano gillie.

Which song I had translated in the following manner, in my younger days,
for a lady’s album:—

    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.

    We go to the house of the poison-monger, {42} 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.

    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.

    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”.

    Early on the morrow, we will return to the farm-house, and beg the
    dead porker, the body of the dead porker.

    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.

    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.

    And then we roast the body well, send for ale to the alehouse, and
    have a merry banquet, a merry Roman banquet.

    The fellow with the fiddle plays, he plays; the little lassie sings,
    she sings an ancient Roman ditty; now hear the Roman ditty.



SONG OF THE BROKEN CHASTITY.
BY URSULA.


    Penn’d the Romany chi ké laki dye,
    “Miry dearie dye mi shom cambri!”
    “And coin kerdo tute cambri,
    Miry dearie chi, miry Romany chi?”
    “O miry dye a boro rye,
    A bovalo rye, a gorgiko rye,
    Sos kistur pré a pellengo grye,
    ’Twas yov sos kerdo man cambri.”
    “Tu tawnie vassavie lubbeny,
    Tu chal from miry tan abri;
    Had a Romany chal kair’d tute cambri,
    Then I had penn’d ke tute chie,
    But tu shan a vassavie lubbeny
    With gorgikie rat to be cambri.”

“There’s some kernel in those songs, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, when
the songs and music were over.

“Yes,” said I; “they are certainly very remarkable songs.  [I translated
both long ago for a lady’s album.”

“A lady’s what, brother?”

“A lil in which she kept bits of song and poetry to show occasionally to
young ladies.”

“You had no right to do that, brother; you had no right to let the ladies
into the secrets of people who took you up when you were little better
than half a fool.  But what did the lady say to them?”

“As I have done just now, that they were remarkable songs, strongly
expressive of the manners and peculiarities of a remarkable people.”

“Brother, she was a gentlewoman, and I forgive you.”]

“I say, Jasper, I hope you have not been drabbing baulor lately.”

“And suppose we have, brother, what then?”

“Why, it is a very dangerous practice, to say nothing of the wickedness
of it.”

“Necessity has no law, brother.”

“That is true,” said I; “I have always said so, but you are not
necessitous, and should not drab baulor.”

“And who told you we had been drabbing baulor?”

“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.”

“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 that we
have not been doing so.  What have you to say to that?”

“That I am very glad of it.”

“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.”

“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?”

“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?”

“A Scotchman finding fault with Romany, Jasper!  Oh dear, but you joke,
the thing could never be.”

“Yes, and at Piramus’s fiddle; what do you think of a Scotchman turning
up his nose at Piramus’s fiddle?”

“A Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus’s fiddle! nonsense, Jasper.”

“Do you know what I most dislike, brother?”

“I do not, unless it be the constable, Jasper.”

“It is not the constable; it’s a beggar on horseback, brother.”

“What do you mean by a beggar on horseback?”

“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, 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, 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.  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; 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 ye 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.”

“You were rather severe on the Scotchman, Jasper.”

“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 bagpipes in Scotland, and Piramus against all the
bagpipers; for though Piramus weighs but ten stone, he shall flog a
Scotchman of twenty.”

“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!”

“And what pretty names, brother; there’s my own for example, Jasper; then
there’s Ambrose and Sylvester; {46a} then there’s Culvato, which
signifies Claude; then there’s Piramus—that’s a nice name, brother.”

“Then there’s your wife’s name, Pakomovna; then there’s Ursula and
Morella.”

“Then, brother, there’s Ercilla.”

“Ercilla! the name of the great poet of Spain, how wonderful; then
Leviathan.”

“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.”

“Ay, and Clementina and Lavinia, Camillia and Lydia, Curlanda and
Orlanda; wherever did they get those names?”

“Where did my wife get her necklace, brother?”

“She knows best, Jasper.  I hope—”

“Come, no hoping!  She got it from her grandmother, who died at the age
of 103, and sleeps in Coggeshall churchyard.  She got it from her mother,
who also died very old, and who could give no other account of it than
that it had been in the family time out of mind.”

“Whence could they have got it?”

“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.”

“Some of your names, Jasper, appear to be church names; your own, for
example, and Ambrose, and Sylvester; {46b} perhaps you got them from the
<DW7>s, 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—”

“What is Slavonian, brother?”

“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?”

“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.”

“By-the-bye, Jasper, I’m half-inclined to think that crallis is a Slavish
word.  I saw something like it in a lil called Voltaire’s _Life of
Charles_.  How you should have come by such names and words is to me
incomprehensible.”

“You seem posed, brother.”

“I really know very little about you, Jasper.”

“Very little indeed, brother.  We know very little about ourselves; and
you know nothing, save what we 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.”




CHAPTER VIII.


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, where
I passed several hours in conning the Welsh Bible, which the preacher,
Peter Williams, had given me.

    [Picture: The Old Church, St. Giles, at Willenhall, Staffordshire
                             (rebuilt 1867)]

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 cornfields; 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 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 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:—

    Every eye shall now behold Him,
    Robed in dreadful majesty;
    Those who set at nought and sold Him,
    Pierced and nailed Him to the tree,
       Deeply wailing,
       Shall the true Messiah see.

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 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 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.

          [Picture: Porch of St. Nicholas Church, East Dereham]

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 for 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—.  I had occasionally done so when a child, and
had suddenly woke up.  Yes, surely I had been asleep and had woke 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 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 learnt and unlearnt; nevertheless, the
general aspect of things brought to my mind what I had felt and seen of
yore.  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 D—.

The liturgy was now over, during the reading of which my companions
behaved in a most unexceptionable 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 one:
“In what would a man be profited, provided he gained the whole world, and
lost his own soul?”

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.

Oh, how eloquent he was, when he talked of the 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.

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.”

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.




CHAPTER IX.


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.

“That was a very fine preacher we heard,” said I to Mr. Petulengro, after
we had crossed the stile into the fields.

“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.”

“He looks rather melancholy, Jasper.”

“He lost his wife several years ago, who, they say, 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.”

“You seem to know all about him, Jasper.  Did you ever hear him preach
before?”

“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.”

“You should learn to read, Jasper.”

“We have no time, brother.”

“Are you not frequently idle?”

“Never, brother; when we are not engaged in our traffic, we are engaged
in taking our relaxation: so we have no time to learn.”

“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.”

“In what way, brother?”

“Why, you could read the Scriptures, and, by so doing, learn your duty
towards your fellow-creatures.”

“We know that already, brother; the constables and justices have
contrived to knock that tolerably into our heads.”

“Yet you frequently break the laws.”

“So, I believe, do now and then those who know how to read, brother.”

“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?’”

“We have not much of the world, brother.”

“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?”

“We are not miserable, brother.”

“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?”

“What’s the bird noising yonder, brother?”

“The bird! oh, that’s the cuckoo tolling; but what has the cuckoo to do
with the matter?”

“We’ll see, brother; what’s the cuckoo?”

“What is it? you know as much about it as myself, Jasper.”

“Isn’t it a kind of roguish, chaffing bird, brother?”

“I believe it is, Jasper.”

“Nobody knows whence it comes, brother.”

“I believe not, Jasper.”

“Very poor, brother, not a nest of its own?”

“So they say, Jasper.”

“With every person’s bad word, brother?”

“Yes, Jasper; every person is mocking it.”

“Tolerably merry, brother?”

“Yes, tolerably merry, Jasper.”

“Of no use at all, brother?”

“None whatever, Jasper.”

“You would be glad to get rid of the cuckoos, brother?”

“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.”

“Well, brother, what’s a Romany chal?”

“You must answer that question yourself, Jasper.”

“A roguish, chaffing fellow; a’n’t he, brother?”

“Ay, ay, Jasper.”

“Of no use at all, brother?”

“Just so Jasper; I see—”

“Something very much like a cuckoo, brother?”

“I see what you are after, Jasper.”

“You would like to get rid of us, wouldn’t you?”

“Why no; not exactly.”

“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?”

“I see what you are at, Jasper,”

“You would wish to turn the cuckoos into barn-door fowls, wouldn’t you?”

“Can’t say I should, Jasper, whatever some people might wish.”

“And the chals and chies into radical weavers and factory wenches; hey,
brother?”

“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.”

“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.”

“Yes, Jasper, but there is some difference between men and cuckoos; men
have souls, Jasper!”

“And why not cuckoos, brother?”

“You should not talk so, Jasper; what you say is little short of
blasphemy.  How should a bird have a soul?”

“And how should a man?”

“Oh, we know very well that a man has a soul.”

“How do you know it?”

“We know very well.”

“Would you take your oath of it, brother—your bodily oath?”

“Why, I think I might, Jasper!”

“Did you ever see the soul, brother?”

“No, I never saw it.”

“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?’”

“Well, we will take no oaths on the subject; but you yourself believe in
the soul.  I have heard you say that you believe in dukkerin; now what is
dukkerin but the soul science?”

“When did I say that I believed in it?”

“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.”

“I have some kind of remembrance of it, brother.”

“Then, again, I heard you say that the dook of Abershaw rode every night
on horseback down the wooded hill.”

“I say, brother, what a wonderful memory you have!”

“I wish I had not, Jasper; but I can’t help it, it is my misfortune.”

“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.”

“Indeed, Jasper, I heard you say on a previous occasion, on quoting a
piece of a song, that when a man dies he is cast into the earth, and
there’s an end of him.”

“I did, did I?  Lor’, what a memory you have, brother.  But you are not
sure that I hold that opinion now.”

“Certainly not, Jasper.  Indeed, after such a sermon as we have been
hearing, I should be very shocked if you held such an opinion.”

“However, brother, don’t be sure I do not, however shocking such an
opinion may be to you.”

“What an incomprehensible people you are, Jasper.”

“We are rather so, brother; indeed, we have posed wiser heads than yours
before now.”

“You seem to care for so little, and yet you rove about a distinct race.”

“I say, brother!”

“Yes, Jasper.”

“What do you think of our women?”

“They have certainly very singular names, Jasper.”

“Names!  Lavengro!  However, brother, if you had been as fond of things
as of names, you would never have been a pal of ours.”

“What do you mean, Jasper?”

“A’n’t they rum animals?”

“They have tongues of their own, Jasper.”

“Did you ever feel their teeth and nails, brother?”

“Never, Jasper, save Mrs. Herne’s.  I have always been very civil to
them, so—”

“They let you alone.  I say, brother, some part of the secret is in
them.”

“They seem rather flighty, Jasper.”

“Ay, ay, brother!”

“Rather fond of loose discourse!”

“Rather so, brother.”

“Can you always trust them, Jasper?”

“We never watch them, brother.”

“They can always trust you?”

“Not quite so well as we can them.  However, we get on very well
together, except Mikailia and her husband; but Mikailia is a <DW36>, 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.”

“Ay, but would not the chi part with the chal for a duke, Jasper?”

“My Pakomovna gave up the duke for me, brother?”

“But she occasionally talks of him, Jasper.”

“Yes, brother, but Pakomovna was born on a common not far from the sign
of the gammon.”

“Gammon of bacon, I suppose.”

“Yes, brother; but gammon likewise means—”

“I know it does, Jasper; it means fun, ridicule, jest; it is an ancient
Norse word, and is found in the Edda.”

“Lor’, brother! how learned in lils you are!”

“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,’
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.”

“Lor’, brother! how book-learned you be.”

“Indifferently so, Jasper.  Then you think you might trust your wife with
the duke?”

“I think I could, brother, or even with yourself.”

“Myself, Jasper!  Oh, I never troubled my head about your wife; but I
suppose there have been love affairs between gorgios and Romany chies.
Why, novels are stuffed with such matters; and then even one of your own
songs say so—the song which Ursula was singing the other afternoon.”

“That is somewhat of an old song, brother, and is sung by the chies as a
warning at our solemn festivals.”

“Well! but there’s your sister-in-law, Ursula herself, Jasper.”

“Ursula herself, brother?”

“You were talking of my having her, Jasper.”

“Well, brother, why didn’t you have her?”

“Would she have had me?”

“Of course, brother.  You are so much of a Roman, and speak Romany so
remarkably well.”

“Poor thing! she looks very innocent!”

“Remarkably so, brother! however, though not born on the same common with
my wife, she knows a thing or two of Roman matters.”

“I should like to ask her a question or two, Jasper, in connection with
that song.”

“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.”




CHAPTER X.


I TOOK tea that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro and Ursula, 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 will
never get another.  What surprises me is, that he ever found a woman
disposed to unite her lot with his!”

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.

“Good-evening, Ursula,” said I; “I little thought to have the pleasure of
seeing you here.”

“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.”

“I was thinking of going to my quarters in the dingle, to read the Bible,
Ursula, but—”

“Oh, pray then, go to your quarters, brother, and read the Miduveleskoe
lil; you can speak to me under a hedge some other time.”

“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.

“Well, brother, now you have sat down with me under the hedge, what have
you to say to me?”

“Why, I hardly know, Ursula.”

“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.”

“Oh! ah! I remember; do you know, Ursula, that I take a great interest in
you?”

“Thank ye, brother; kind of you, at any rate.”

“You must be exposed to a great many temptations, Ursula.”

“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 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.”

“Then you think gold and fine things temptations, Ursula?”

“Of course, brother, very great temptations; don’t you think them so?”

“Can’t say I do, Ursula.”

“Then more fool you, brother; but have the kindness to tell me what you
would call a temptation?”

“Why, for example, the hope of honour and renown, Ursula.”

“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 broad-cloth 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.”

“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.”

“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, and
more disposed to respect those who have them.”

“Then money and fine clothes would induce you to anything, Ursula?”

“Ay, ay, brother, anything.”

“To chore, Ursula?”

“Like enough, brother; gypsies have been transported before now for
choring.”

“To hokkawar?”

“Ay, ay; I was telling dukkerin only yesterday, brother.”

“In fact, to break the law in everything?”

“Who knows, brother, who knows?  As I said before, gold and fine clothes
are great temptations.”

“Well, Ursula, I am sorry for it, I should never have thought you so
depraved.”

“Indeed, brother.”

“To think that I am seated by one who is willing to—to—”

“Go on, brother.”

“To play the thief!”

“Go on, brother.”

“The liar.”

“Go on, brother.”

“The—the—”

“Go on, brother.”

“The—the lubbeny.”

“The what, brother?” said Ursula, starting from her seat.

“Why, the lubbeny; don’t you—”

“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.”

“Why, what is the matter, Ursula?” said I; “how have I offended you?”

“How have you offended me?  Why, didn’t you insinivate just now that I
was ready to play the—the—”

“Go on, Ursula.”

“The—the—  I’ll not say it; but I only wish I had something in my hand.”

“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.”

“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.”

“Well, did you not almost give me to understand that you were both,
Ursula?”

“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—”

“Well, Ursula.”

“I tell you what, brother, if you ever sinivate again that I could be the
third thing, so help me duvel! I’ll do you a mischief.  By my God I
will!”

“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—”

“My name is Ursula, brother, and not Lucretia: Lucretia is not of our
family, but one of the Bucklands; she travels about Oxfordshire; yet I am
as good as she any day.”

“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 as 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 a
temptation as gold and fine clothes?”

“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.”

And thereupon Ursula sat down by my side.

“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?”

“In all kinds, brother; I travels, as you say, very much about, attends
fairs and races, and enters booths and public-houses, where I tells
fortunes, and sometimes dances and sings.”

“And do not people often address you in a very free manner?”

“Frequently, brother; and I give them tolerably free answers.”

“Do people ever offer to make you presents?  I mean presents of value,
such as—”

“Silk handkerchiefs, shawls and trinkets; very frequently, brother.”

“And what do you do, Ursula?”

“I takes what people offers me, brother, and stows it away as soon as I
can.”

“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, Ursula?”

“Innocent thing, do you call it, brother?”

“The world calls it so, Ursula.  Well, do the people who give you the
fine things never expect a choomer in return?”

“Very frequently, brother.”

“And do you ever grant it?”

“Never, brother.”

“How do you avoid it?”

“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.”

“But if your terrible language has no effect?”

“Then I screams for the constable, and if he comes not, I uses my teeth
and nails.”

“And are they always sufficient?”

“I have only had to use them twice, brother; but then I found them
sufficient.”

“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?”

“We makes no difference, brother; the daughters of the gypsy father makes
no difference; and what’s more, sees none.”

“Well, Ursula, the world will hardly give you credit for such
indifference.”

“What cares we for the world, brother! we are not of the world.”

“But your fathers, brothers and uncles give you credit, I suppose,
Ursula.”

“Ay, ay, brother, our fathers, brothers and cokos gives us all manner of
credit; for example, I am telling lies and dukkerin in a public-house
where my batu 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 night perhaps; well, my batu and my 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.”

“They know they can trust you, Ursula?”

“Ay, ay, brother; and, what’s more, I knows I can trust myself.”

“So you would merely go out to make a fool of him, Ursula?”

“Merely go out to make a fool of him, brother, I assure you.”

“But such proceedings really have an odd look, Ursula.”

“Amongst gorgios, very so, brother.”

“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 militiamen, how
would you proceed, Ursula? would you not be abashed?”

“By no means, brother; I should bring my action of law against him.”

“Your action at law, Ursula?”

“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 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,’ said 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.”

“And this is your action at law, Ursula?”

“Yes, brother, this is my action at club-law.”

“And would your breaking the fellow’s head quite clear you of all
suspicion in the eyes of your batus, cokos, and what not?”

“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.”

“And would it clear you in their eyes?”

“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.”

“Did you ever try it, Ursula?”

“Can’t say I ever did, brother, but it would do.”

“And how did you ever learn such a method of proceeding?”

“Why, ’t is advised by gypsy liri, 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.”

“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 by a grand
gorgious gentleman.”

“A sad let down,” said Ursula.

“Well,” said I, “sad or not, there’s the song that speaks of the thing,
which you give me to understand is not.”

“Well, if the thing ever was,” said Ursula, “it was a long time ago, and
perhaps, after all, not true.”

“Then why do you sing the song?”

“I’ll 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 kind
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.”

“But if such a thing were to happen at present, would the cokos and pals
bury the girl alive?”

“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, 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.”

“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 hardly
object to the chi’s entering into the honourable estate of wedlock with a
gorgio.”

Ursula was silent.

“Marriage is an honourable estate, Ursula.”

“Well, brother, suppose it be?”

“I don’t see why a Romany chi should object to enter into the honourable
estate of wedlock with a gorgio.”

“You don’t, brother, don’t you?”

“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.”

“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.”

“All that you say may be very true, Ursula, but you admit that there are
half and halfs.”

“The more’s the pity, brother.”

“Pity, or not, you admit the fact; but how do you account for it?”

“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 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.”

“Then you mean to say, Ursula, that no Romany chi, unless compelled by
hard necessity would have anything to do with a gorgio?”

“We are not over-fond of gorgios, brother, and we hates basket-makers,
and folks that live in caravans.”

“Well,” said I, “suppose a gorgio who is not a basket-maker, a fine,
handsome gorgious gentleman, who lives in a fine house—”

“We are not fond of houses, brother; I never slept in a house in my
life.”

“But would not plenty of money induce you?”

“I hate houses, brother, and those who live in them.”

“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,
would you have nothing to say to him?”

“Bringing plenty of money with him, brother?”

“Well, bringing plenty of money with him, Ursula.”

“Well, brother, suppose you produce your man; where is he?”

“I was merely supposing such a person, Ursula.”

“Then you don’t know of such a person, brother?”

“Why, no, Ursula; why do you ask?”

“Because, brother, I was almost beginning to think that you meant
yourself.”

“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—”

“Meridiana! where did you meet with her?” said Ursula, with a toss of her
head.

“Why, in old Pulci’s—”

“At old Fulcher’s! that’s not true, brother.  Meridiana is a Borzlam, and
travels with her own people and not with old Fulcher, who is a gorgio,
and a basket-maker.”

“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 _Morgante
Maggiore_, speaks of Meridiana, the daughter of—”

“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?”

“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, 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.”

“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, 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.”

“I was not talking of that Oliver, Ursula, but of Oliver, peer of France,
and paladin of Charlemagne, with whom Meridiana, daughter of Caradoro,
fell in love, and for whose sake she renounced her religion and became a
Christian, and finally _ingravidata_, or cambri, by him:—

    ‘E nacquene un figliuol, dice la storia,
    Che dette à Carlo-man poi gran vittoria’;

which means—”

“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 at than she, though
I will say she is no lubbeny, and would scorn—”

“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—”

“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—”

“You seem disappointed, Ursula.”

“Disappointed, brother! not I.”

“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—”

“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.”

“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.”

“You do, do you, brother?”

“Yes.  However, keep up your spirits, Ursula, you are not much past the
prime of youth, so—”

“Not much past the prime of youth!  Don’t be uncivil, brother, I was only
twenty-two last month.”

“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.”

“Thank you, brother, but your advice comes rather late; I accepted the
first offer that was made me five years ago.”

“You married five years ago, Ursula! is it possible?”

“Quite possible, brother, I assure you.”

“And how came I to know nothing about it?”

“How comes it that you don’t know many thousand things about the Romans,
brother?  Do you think they tell you all their affairs?”

“Married, Ursula, married! well, I declare!”

“You seem disappointed, brother.”

“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.”

“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.”

“I am sorry to hear it, Ursula; but with respect to him you married—who
might he be?  A gorgio, or a Romany chal?”

“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.”

“And where is he? and what became of him!  Have you any family?”

“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.”

“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 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.”

“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.




CHAPTER XI.


“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 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 ginger-bread, 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, 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.”

“You saw your husband’s patteran?”

“Yes, brother.  Do you know what patteran means?”

“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.”

“Like enough, brother; but what does patteran mean?”

“Why, the gypsy trail, formed as I told you before.”

“And you know nothing more about patteran, brother?”

“Nothing at all, Ursula; do you?”

“What’s the name for the leaf of a tree, brother?”

“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.”

“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.”

“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?”

“My mother, Mrs. Herne, told it me one day, brother, when she was in a
good humour, which she very seldom was, as no one has a better right to
know than yourself, 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 baulked.  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 trails 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
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.”

“Dear me,” said I, “how terrible!  But tell me, Ursula, how did your
husband come by his death?”

“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 death of my
husband preyed very much upon my mind.”

“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.”

“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.”

“But what has Mikailia Chikno to say about it?”

“She is a <DW36>, brother, the only <DW36> 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.”

“Your sister does not seem to stand much in awe of Jasper Petulengro,
Ursula.”

“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 than Jasper Petulengro; if you can
manage Miss Isopel Berners as well as—”

“Isopel Berners,” said I, “how came you to think of her?”

“How should I but think of her, brother, living as she does with you in
Mumpers’ 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—”

“I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula.”

“Do let me tell you your dukkerin, brother, you will never manage—”

“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 look so beautiful.  I
suppose you do not think of marrying again, Ursula?”

“No, brother, one husband at a time is quite enough for any reasonable
mort; especially such a good husband as I have got.”

“Such a good husband! why, I thought you told me your husband was
drowned?”

“Yes, brother, my first husband was.”

“And have you a second?”

“To be sure, brother.”

“And who is he? in the name of wonder.”

“Who is he? why Sylvester, to be sure.”

“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—”

“I won’t hear my husband abused, brother; so you had better say no more.”

“Why, is he not the Lazarus of the gypsies? has he a penny of his own,
Ursula?”

“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, 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.”

“Well, if you like him, I, of course, can have no objection.  Have you
been long married?”

“About a fortnight, brother; that dinner, the other day, when I sang the
song, was given in celebration of the wedding.”

“Were you married in a church, Ursula?”

“We were not, brother; none but gorgios, <DW36>s 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.”

“Does he know that you are here?”

“He does, brother.”

“And is he satisfied?”

“Satisfied! of course.  Lor’, you gorgios!  Brother, I go to my husband
and my house.”  And, thereupon, Ursula rose and departed.

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?”

“If you wished to hear what we were talking about, you should have come
and sat down beside us; you knew where we were.”

“Well, brother, I did much the same, for I went and sat down behind you.”

“Behind the hedge, Jasper?”

“Behind the hedge, brother.”

“And heard all our conversation?”

“Every word, brother; and a rum conversation it was.”

“’Tis an old saying, Jasper, that listeners never hear any good of
themselves; perhaps you heard the epithet that Ursula bestowed upon you.”

“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.”

“You deceived me about Ursula, giving me to understand she was not
married.”

“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.”

“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.”

“Didn’t I say they were rum animals?  Brother, we Romans shall always
stick together as long as they stick fast to us.”

“Do you think they always will, Jasper?”

“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.”




CHAPTER XII.


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 a rather dastardly
part.  I had never been an admirer of people who chose the 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.

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 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 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.

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 learnt 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 learnt it till this day; so patteran
signified leaf, the leaf of a tree; and no one at present knew that but
myself and Ursula, who had learnt 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 learnt 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?”

Then rose another sigh, yet more profound, for I 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 learnt? 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_; 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 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.  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, 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 till my eyes closed
in a doze.

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, 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.

“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,” 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.

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 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 Lovel, 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 myself, “as you may see by
the fire and the kettle.  I will be with you in a moment.”

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 gypsy matters.  Do you know,
Belle, that she has just been married to Sylvester, so that 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 selfish 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.  “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 know scarcely anything of the Armenian language; now,
to learn Armenian from me would take you twenty years.”

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.




CHAPTER XIII.


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
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 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.”

We went into the bar-room, where the landlord and I discussed between us
two bottles of strong ale, which he 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 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.




CHAPTER XIV.


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, 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, “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.

“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 ends in _al_,
the second in _yel_, the third in _oul_, and the fourth in _il_.  Now,
have you understood me?”

“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?”

“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 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.”

“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 a 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_.”

“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 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
the _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!”

“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 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; “_siriestsies_, 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 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—_parghatsoutsaniem_, I irritate—”

“You do, you do,” said Belle; “and it will be better for both of us, if
you leave off doing so.”

“You would hardly believe, Belle,” said I, “that the Armenian is in some
respects closely connected with the Irish, but so it is; for example,
that word _parghatsoutsaniem_ is evidently derived from the same root as
_feargaim_, which, in Irish, is as much as to say I vex.”

“You do, indeed,” said Belle, sobbing.

“But how do you account for it?”

“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.

“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.”

“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.”

“Why, to tell you the truth, Belle, it’s my way; and I have dealt with
you just as I would with—”

“A hard-mouthed jade,” said Belle, “and you 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.”

“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.”

“Our ways lie different,” said Belle.

“I don’t see why they should,” said I.  “Come, let us be off to America
together.”

“To America together?” said Belle, looking full at me.

“Yes,” said I; “where we will settle down in some forest, and conjugate
the verb _siriel_ conjugally.”

“Conjugally?” said Belle.

“Yes,” said I; “as man and wife in America, _air yew ghin_”.

“You are jesting, as usual,” said Belle.

“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.”

“I don’t think you are jesting,” said Belle; “but I can hardly entertain
your offers; however, young man, I thank you.”

“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
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.”

“I require no such thing of you, or anybody,” said Belle; “you are
beginning to look rather wild.”

“I every now and then do,” said I; “come, Belle, what do you say?”

“I will say nothing at present on the subject,” said Belle; “I must have
time to consider.”

“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.”




CHAPTER XV.


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, 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.

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 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.

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 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 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.”

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 came 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.

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 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 a 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 she, 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 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 hedgerows; she is merely gone after a little
business and will return to-morrow.”

Comforted in some degree by these hopeful imaginings, I retired to my
tent, and went to sleep.




CHAPTER XVI.


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
midday, 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.

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 hoof 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 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.

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.

“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 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 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.

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 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:—

                    “TO THE YOUNG MAN IN MUMPERS’ DINGLE.

    “SIR,—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.

    “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.

    “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 not, and kept putting off and putting off, and behaving in a very
    strange 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.

    “However, setting matters of blood and family entirely aside, many
    thanks to you, young man, from 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.

    “And as another proof of the goodwill 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.

    “_Fear God_, 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 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 its 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,

                                        “Your affectionate female servant,
                                                         “ISOPEL BERNERS.”

After reading the letter I sat for some time motionless, holding it in my
hand.  The daydream, 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
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
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.




CHAPTER XVII.


IT was rather late on the following morning when I awoke.  At first I was
almost unconscious of what had occurred on the preceding day;
recollection, however, by degrees returned, and I felt a deep melancholy
coming over me, but perfectly aware that no advantage could be derived
from the indulgence of such a feeling, I sprang up, prepared my
breakfast, which I ate with a tolerable appetite, and then left the
dingle, and betook myself to the gypsy encampment, where I entered into
discourse with various Romanies, both male and female.  After some time,
feeling myself in better spirits, I determined to pay another visit to
the landlord of the public-house.  From the position of his affairs when
I had last visited him, I entertained rather gloomy ideas with respect to
his present circumstances.  I imagined that I should either find him
alone in his kitchen smoking a wretched pipe, or in company with some
surly bailiff or his follower, whom his friend the brewer had sent into
the house in order to take possession of his effects.

    [Picture: The Old “Bull’s Head,” Wolverhampton Street, Willenhall]

Nothing more entirely differing from either of these anticipations could
have presented itself to my view than what I saw about one o’clock in the
afternoon, when I entered the house.  I had come, though somewhat in want
of consolation myself, to offer any consolation which was at my command
to my acquaintance Catchpole, and perhaps like many other people who go
to a house with “drops of compassion trembling on their eyelids,” I felt
rather disappointed at finding that no compassion was necessary.  The
house was thronged with company; the cries for ale and porter, hot brandy
and water, cold gin and water, were numerous; moreover, no desire to
receive and not to pay for the landlord’s liquids was manifested—on the
contrary, everybody seemed disposed to play the most honourable part:
“Landlord, here’s the money for this glass of brandy and water—do me the
favour to take it; all right, remember I have paid you.”  “Landlord,
here’s the money for the pint of half-and-half—fourpence halfpenny, ain’t
it?—here’s sixpence; keep the change—confound the change!”  The landlord,
assisted by his niece, bustled about, his brow erect, his cheeks plumped
out, and all his features exhibiting a kind of surly satisfaction.
Wherever he moved, marks of the most cordial amity were shown him, hands
were thrust out to grasp his, nor were looks of respect, admiration, nay,
almost of adoration, wanting.  I observed one fellow, as the landlord
advanced, take the pipe out of his mouth, and gaze upon him with a kind
of grin of wonder, probably much the same as his ancestor, the Saxon lout
of old, put on when he saw his idol Thur, dressed in a new kirtle.  To
avoid the press, I got into a corner, where on a couple of chairs sat two
respectable-looking individuals, whether farmers or sow-gelders, I know
not, but highly respectable-looking, who were discoursing about the
landlord.  “Such another,” said one, “you will not find in a summer’s
day.”  “No, nor in the whole of England,” said the other.  “Tom of
Hopton,” said the first: “ah!  Tom of Hopton,” echoed the other; “the man
who could beat Tom of Hopton could beat the world.”  “I glory in him,”
said the first.  “So do I,” said the second; “I’ll back him against the
world.  Let me hear any one say anything against him, and if I don’t—”
then, looking at me, he added: “Have you anything to say against him,
young man?”  “Not a word,” said I, “save that he regularly puts me out.”
“He’ll put any one out,” said the man, “any one out of conceit with
himself;” then, lifting a mug to his mouth, he added, with a hiccough, “I
drink his health.”  Presently the landlord, as he moved about, observing
me, stopped short: “Ah!” said he, “are you here?  I am glad to see you,
come this way.”  “Stand back,” said he to his company, as I followed him
to the bar, “stand back for me and this gentleman.”  Two or three young
fellows were in the bar, seemingly sporting yokels, drinking sherry and
smoking.  “Come, gentlemen,” said the landlord, “clear the bar, I must
have a clear bar for me and my friend here.”  “Landlord, what will you
take,” said one, “a glass of sherry?  I know you like it.”  “— sherry and
you too,” said the landlord, “I want neither sherry nor yourself; didn’t
you hear what I told you?”  “All right, old fellow,” said the other,
shaking the landlord by the hand, “all right, don’t wish to intrude—but I
suppose when you and your friend have done, I may come in again;” then,
with “a sarvant, sir,” to me, he took himself into the kitchen, followed
by the rest of the sporting yokels.

Thereupon the landlord, taking a bottle of ale from a basket, uncorked
it, and pouring the contents into two large glasses, handed me one, and
motioning me to sit down, placed himself by me; then, emptying his own
glass at a draught, he gave a kind of grunt of satisfaction, and fixing
his eyes upon the opposite side of the bar, remained motionless, without
saying a word, buried apparently in important cogitations.  With respect
to myself, I swallowed my ale more leisurely, and was about to address my
friend, when his niece, coming into the bar, said that more and more
customers were arriving, and how she should supply their wants she did
not know, unless her uncle would get up and help her.

“The customers!” said the landlord, “let the scoundrels wait till you
have time to serve them, or till I have leisure to see after them.”  “The
kitchen won’t contain half of them,” said his niece.  “Then let them sit
out abroad,” said the landlord.  “But there are not benches enough,
uncle,” said the niece.  “Then let them stand or sit on the ground,” said
the uncle, “what care I; I’ll let them know that the man who beat Tom of
Hopton stands as well again on his legs as ever.”  Then opening a side
door which led from the bar into the back yard, he beckoned me to follow
him.  “You treat your customers in rather a cavalier manner,” said I,
when we were alone together in the yard.

“Don’t I?” said the landlord; “and I’ll treat them more so yet; now I
have got the whiphand of the rascals I intend to keep it.  I daresay you
are a bit surprised with regard to the change which has come over things
since you were last here.  I’ll tell you how it happened.  You remember
in what a desperate condition you found me, thinking of changing my
religion, selling my soul to the man in black, and then going and hanging
myself like Pontius Pilate; and I daresay you can’t have forgotten how
you gave me good advice, made me drink ale, and give up sherry.  Well,
after you were gone, I felt all the better for your talk, and what you
had made me drink, and it was a mercy that I did feel better; for my
niece was gone out, poor thing, and I was left alone in the house,
without a soul to look at, or to keep me from doing myself a mischief in
case I was so inclined.  Well, things wore on in this way till it grew
dusk, when in came that blackguard Hunter with his train to drink at my
expense, and to insult me as usual; there were more than a dozen of them,
and a pretty set they looked.  Well, they ordered about in a very free
and easy manner for upwards of an hour and a half, occasionally sneering
and jeering at me, as they had been in the habit of doing for some time
past; so, as I said before, things wore on, and other customers came in,
who, though they did not belong to Hunter’s gang, also passed off their
jokes upon me; for, as you perhaps know, we English are a set of low
hounds, who will always take part with the many by way of making
ourselves safe, and currying favour with the stronger side.  I said
little or nothing, for my spirits had again become very low, and I was
verily scared and afraid.  All of a sudden I thought of the ale which I
had drank in the morning, and of the good it did me then, so I went into
the bar, opened another bottle, took a glass, and felt better; so I took
another, and feeling better still, I went back into the kitchen, just as
Hunter and his crew were about leaving.  ‘Mr. Hunter,’ said I, ‘you and
your people will please to pay me for what you have had?’  ‘What do you
mean by my people?’ said he, with an oath.  ‘Ah, what do mean you by
calling us his people?’ said the clan.  ‘We are nobody’s people;’ and
then there was a pretty load of abuse, and threatening to serve me out.
‘Well,’ said I, ‘I was perhaps wrong to call them your people, and beg
your pardon and theirs.  And now you will please to pay me for what you
have had yourself, and afterwards I can settle with them.’  ‘I shall pay
you when I think fit,’ said Hunter.  ‘Yes,’ said the rest, ‘and so shall
we.  We shall pay you when we think fit.’  ‘I tell you what,’ said
Hunter, ‘I conceives I do such an old fool as you an honour when I comes
into his house and drinks his beer, and goes away without paying for it;’
and then there was a roar of laughter from everybody, and almost all said
the same thing.  ‘Now, do you please to pay me, Mr. Hunter?’ said I.
‘Pay you!’ said Hunter; ‘pay you!  Yes, here’s the pay;’ and thereupon he
held out his thumb, twirling it round till it just touched my nose.  I
can’t tell you what I felt that moment; a kind of madhouse thrill came
upon me, and all I know is, that I bent back as far as I could, then
lunging out, struck him under the ear, sending him reeling two or three
yards, when he fell on the floor.  I wish you had but seen how my company
looked at me and at each other.  One or two of the clan went to raise
Hunter, and get him to fight, but it was no go; though he was not killed,
he had had enough for that evening.  Oh, I wish you had seen my
customers; those who did not belong to the clan, but who had taken part
with them, and helped to jeer and flout me, now came and shook me by the
hand, wishing me joy, and saying as how ‘I was a brave fellow, and had
served the bully right!’  As for the clan, they all said Hunter was bound
to do me justice; so they made him pay me what he owed for himself, and
the reckoning of those among them who said they had no money.  Two or
three of them then led him away, while the rest stayed behind, and
flattered me, and worshipped me, and called Hunter all kinds of dogs’
names.  What do you think of that?”

“Why,” said I, “it makes good what I read in a letter which I received
yesterday.  It is just the way of the world.”

“A’n’t it,” said the landlord.  “Well, that a’n’t all; let me go on.
Good fortune never yet came alone.  In about an hour comes home my poor
niece, almost in high sterricks with joy, smiling and sobbing.  She had
been to the clergyman of M—, the great preacher, to whose Church she was
in the habit of going, and to whose daughters she was well known; and to
him she told a lamentable tale about my distresses, and about the snares
which had been laid for my soul; and so well did she plead my cause, and
so strong did the young ladies back all she said, that the good clergyman
promised to stand my friend, and to lend me sufficient money to satisfy
the brewer, and to get my soul out of the snares of the man in black; and
sure enough the next morning the two young ladies brought me the fifty
pounds, which I forthwith carried to the brewer, who was monstrously
civil, saying that he hoped any little misunderstanding we had had would
not prevent our being good friends in future.  That a’n’t all; the people
of the neighbouring county hearing as if by art witchcraft that I had
licked Hunter, and was on good terms with the brewer, forthwith began to
come in crowds to look at me, pay me homage, and be my customers.
Moreover, fifty scoundrels who owed me money, and who would have seen me
starve rather than help me as long as they considered me a down pin,
remembered their debts, and came and paid me more than they owed.  That
a’n’t all; the brewer being about to establish a stage-coach and three,
to run across the country, says it shall stop and change horses at my
house, and the passengers breakfast and sup as it goes and returns.  He
wishes me—whom he calls the best man in England—to give his son lessons
in boxing, which he says he considers a fine manly English art, and a
great defence against Popery—notwithstanding that only a month ago, when
he considered me a down pin, he was in the habit of railing against it as
a blackguard practice, and against me as a blackguard for following it;
so I am going to commence with young hopeful to-morrow.”

“I really cannot help congratulating you on your good fortune,” said I.

“That a’n’t all,” said the landlord.  “This very morning the folks of our
parish made me churchwarden, which they would no more have done a month
ago, when they considered me a down pin, than they—”

“Mercy upon us!” said I, “if fortune pours in upon you in this manner,
who knows but that within a year they may make you justice of the peace?”

“Who knows, indeed!” said the landlord.  “Well, I will prove myself
worthy of my good luck by showing the grateful mind—not to those who
would be kind to me now, but to those who were, when the days were rather
gloomy.  My customers shall have abundance of rough language, but I’ll
knock any one down who says anything against the clergyman who lent me
the fifty pounds, or against the Church of England, of which he is parson
and I am churchwarden.  I am also ready to do anything in reason for him
who paid me for the ale he drank, when I shouldn’t have had the heart to
collar him for the money had he refused to pay; who never jeered or
flouted me like the rest of my customers when I was a down pin, and
though he refused to fight cross _for_ me was never cross _with_ me, but
listened to all I had to say, and gave me all kinds of good advice.  Now
who do you think I mean by this last? why, who but yourself—who on earth
but yourself?  The parson is a good man and a great preacher, and I’ll
knock anybody down who says to the contrary; and I mention him first,
because why, he’s a gentleman, and you a tinker.  But I am by no means
sure you are not the best friend of the two; for I doubt, do you see,
whether I should have had the fifty pounds but for you.  You persuaded me
to give up that silly drink they call sherry, and drink ale; and what was
it but drinking ale which gave me courage to knock down that fellow
Hunter—and knocking him down was, I verily believe, the turning point of
my disorder.  God don’t love them who won’t strike out for themselves;
and as far as I can calculate with respect to time, it was just the
moment after I had knocked down Hunter, that the parson consented to lend
me the money, and everything began to grow civil to me.  So, dash my
buttons if I show the ungrateful mind to you!  I don’t offer to knock
anybody down for you, because why—I daresay you can knock a body down
yourself; but I’ll offer something more to the purpose; as my business is
wonderfully on the increase, I shall want somebody to help me in serving
my customers, and keeping them in order.  If you choose to come and serve
for your board, and what they’ll give you, give me your fist; or if you
like ten shillings a week better than their sixpences and ha’pence, only
say so—though, to be open with you, I believe you would make twice ten
shillings out of them—the sneaking, fawning, curry-favouring humbugs!”

“I am much obliged to you,” said I, “for your handsome offer, which,
however, I am obliged to decline.”

“Why so?” said the landlord.

“I am not fit for service,” said I; “moreover, I am about to leave this
part of the country.”  As I spoke a horse neighed in the stable.  “What
horse is that?” said I.

“It belongs to a cousin of mine, who put it into my hands yesterday, in
the hopes that I might get rid of it for him, though he would no more
have done so a week ago, when he considered me a down pin, than he would
have given the horse away.  Are you fond of horses?”

“Very much,” said I.

“Then come and look at it.”  He led me into the stable, where, in a
stall, stood a noble-looking animal.

“Dear me,” said I, “I saw this horse at — fair.”

“Like enough,” said the landlord; “he was there and was offered for
seventy pounds, but didn’t find a bidder at any price.  What do you think
of him?”

“He’s a splendid creature.”

“I am no judge of horses,” said the landlord; “but I am told he’s a
first-rate trotter, good leaper, and has some of the blood of Syntax.
What does all that signify?—the game is against his master, who is a down
pin, is thinking of emigrating, and wants money confoundedly.  He asked
seventy pounds at the fair; but, between ourselves, he would be glad to
take fifty here.”

“I almost wish,” said I, “that I were a rich squire.”

“You would buy him then,” said the landlord.  Here he mused for some
time, with a very profound look.  “It would be a rum thing,” said he, “if
some time or other that horse should come into your hands.  Didn’t you
hear how he neighed when you talked about leaving the country?  My granny
was a wise woman, and was up to all kinds of signs and wonders, sounds
and noises, the interpretation of the language of birds and animals,
crowing and lowing, neighing and braying.  If she had been here, she
would have said at once that that horse was fated to carry you away.  On
that point, however, I can say nothing, for under fifty pounds no one can
have him.  Are you taking that money out of your pocket to pay me for the
ale?  That won’t do; nothing to pay; I invited you this time.  Now, if
you are going, you had best get into the road through the yard-gate.  I
won’t trouble you to make your way through the kitchen and my
fine-weather company—confound them!”




CHAPTER XVIII.


AS I returned along the road I met Mr. Petulengro and one of his
companions, who told me that they were bound for the public-house;
whereupon I informed Jasper how I had seen in the stable the horse which
we had admired at the fair.  “I shouldn’t wonder if you buy that horse
after all, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro.  With a smile at the absurdity
of such a supposition, I left him and his companion, and betook myself to
the dingle.  In the evening I received a visit from Mr. Petulengro, who
forthwith commenced talking about the horse, which he had again seen, the
landlord having shown it to him on learning that he was a friend of mine.
He told me that the horse pleased him more than ever, he having examined
his points with more accuracy than he had an opportunity of doing on the
first occasion, concluding by pressing me to buy him.  I begged him to
desist from such foolish importunity, assuring him that I had never so
much money in all my life as would enable me to purchase the horse.
Whilst this discourse was going on, Mr. Petulengro and myself were
standing together in the midst of the dingle.  Suddenly he began to move
round me in a very singular manner, making strange motions with his
hands, and frightful contortions with his features, till I became
alarmed, and asked him whether he had not lost his senses?  Whereupon,
ceasing his movements and contortions, he assured me that he had not, but
had merely been seized with a slight dizziness, and then once more
returned to the subject of the horse.  Feeling myself very angry, I told
him that if he continued persecuting me in that manner, I should be
obliged to quarrel with him; adding, that I believed his only motive for
asking me to buy the animal was to insult my poverty.  “Pretty poverty,”
said he, “with fifty pounds in your pocket; however, I have heard say
that it is always the custom of your rich people to talk of their
poverty, more especially when they wish to avoid laying out money.”
Surprised at his saying that I had fifty pounds in my pocket, I asked him
what he meant; whereupon he told me that he was very sure that I had
fifty pounds in my pocket, offering to lay me five shillings to that
effect.  “Done!” said I, “I have scarcely more than the fifth part of
what you say.”  “I know better, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “if you
only pull out what you have in the pocket of your slop, I am sure you
will have lost your wager.”  Putting my hand into the pocket, I felt
something which I had never felt there before, and pulling it out,
perceived that it was a clumsy leathern purse, which I found on opening
contained four ten-pound notes, and several pieces of gold.  “Didn’t I
tell you so, brother?” said Mr. Petulengro.  “Now, in the first place,
please to pay me the five shillings you have lost.”  “This is only a
foolish piece of pleasantry,” said I; “you put it into my pocket whilst
you were moving about me, making faces like a distracted person.  Here,
take your purse back.”  “I,” said Mr. Petulengro, “not I, indeed! don’t
think I am such a fool.  I have won my wager, so pay me the five
shillings, brother.”  “Do drop this folly,” said I, “and take your
purse;” and I flung it on the ground.  “Brother,” said Mr. Petulengro,
“you were talking of quarrelling with me just now.  I tell you now one
thing, which is, that if you do not take back the purse I will quarrel
with you; and it shall be for good and all.  I’ll drop your acquaintance,
no longer call you my pal, and not even say sar shan to you when I meet
you by the roadside.  Hir mi diblis, I never will.”  I saw by Jasper’s
look and tone that he was in earnest, and, as I had really a regard for
the strange being, I scarcely knew what to do.  “Now, be persuaded,
brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, taking up the purse, and handing it to me;
“be persuaded; put the purse into your pocket, and buy the horse.”
“Well,” said I, “if I did so, would you acknowledge the horse to be
yours, and receive the money again as soon as I should be able to repay
you?”

“I would, brother, I would,” said he; “return me the money as soon as you
please, provided you buy the horse.”  “What motive have you for wishing
me to buy that horse?” said I.  “He’s to be sold for fifty pounds,” said
Jasper, “and is worth four times that sum, though, like many a splendid
bargain, he is now going a begging; buy him, and I’m confident that, in a
little time, a grand gentleman of your appearance may have anything he
asks for him, and found a fortune by his means.  Moreover, brother, I
want to dispose of this fifty pounds in a safe manner.  If you don’t take
it, I shall fool it away in no time, perhaps at card-playing, for you saw
how I was cheated by those blackguard jockeys the other day—we gyptians
don’t know how to take care of money: our best plan when we have got a
handful of guineas is to make buttons with them; but I have plenty of
golden buttons, and don’t wish to be troubled with more, so you can do me
no greater favour than vesting the money in this speculation, by which my
mind will be relieved of considerable care and trouble for some time at
least.”

Perceiving that I still hesitated, he said: “Perhaps, brother, you think
I did not come honestly by the money: by the honestest manner in the
world, for it is the money I earnt by fighting in the ring: I did not
steal it, brother, nor did I get it by disposing of spavined donkeys, or
glandered ponies—nor is it, brother, the profits of my wife’s witchcraft
and dukkerin.”

“But,” said I, “you had better employ it in your traffic.”  “I have
plenty of money for my traffic, independent of this capital,” said Mr.
Petulengro; “ay, brother, and enough besides to back the husband of my
wife’s sister, Sylvester, against Slammocks of the Chong gav for twenty
pounds, which I am thinking of doing.”

“But,” said I, “after all, the horse may have found another purchaser by
this time.”  “Not he,” said Mr. Petulengro; “there is nobody in this
neighbourhood to purchase a horse like that, unless it be your
lordship—so take the money, brother,” and he thrust the purse into my
hand.  Allowing myself to be persuaded, I kept possession of the purse.
“Are you satisfied now?” said I.  “By no means, brother,” said Mr.
Petulengro, “you will please to pay me the five shillings which you lost
to me.”  “Why,” said I, “the fifty pounds which I found in my pocket were
not mine, but put in by yourself.”  “That’s nothing to do with the
matter, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “I betted you five shillings that
you had fifty pounds in your pocket, which sum you had: I did not say
that they were your own, but merely that you had fifty pounds; you will
therefore pay me, brother, or I shall not consider you an honourable
man.”  Not wishing to have any dispute about such a matter, I took five
shillings out of my under pocket, and gave them to him.  Mr. Petulengro
took the money with great glee, observing: “These five shillings I will
take to the public-house forthwith, and spend in drinking with four of my
brethren, and doing so will give me an opportunity of telling the
landlord that I have found a customer for his horse, and that you are the
man.  It will be as well to secure the horse as soon as possible; for
though the dook tells me that the horse is intended for you, I have now
and then found that the dook is, like myself, somewhat given to lying.”

He then departed, and I remained alone in the dingle.  I thought at first
that I had committed a great piece of folly in consenting to purchase
this horse; I might find no desirable purchaser for him, until the money
in my possession should be totally exhausted, and then I might be
compelled to sell him for half the price I had given for him, or be even
glad to find a person who would receive him at a gift; I should then
remain _sans_ horse, and indebted to Mr. Petulengro.  Nevertheless, it
was possible that I might sell the horse very advantageously, and by so
doing obtain a fund sufficient to enable me to execute some grand
enterprise or other.  My present way of life afforded no prospect of
support, whereas the purchase of the horse did afford a possibility of
bettering my condition, so, after all, had I not done right in consenting
to purchase the horse?  The purchase was to be made with another person’s
property, it is true, and I did not exactly like the idea of speculating
with another person’s property, but Mr. Petulengro had thrust his money
upon me, and if I lost his money, he could have no one but himself to
blame; so I persuaded myself that I had, upon the whole, done right, and
having come to that persuasion, I soon began to enjoy the idea of finding
myself on horseback again, and figured to myself all kinds of strange
adventures which I should meet with on the roads before the horse and I
should part company.




CHAPTER XIX.


I SAW nothing more of Mr. Petulengro that evening; on the morrow,
however, he came and informed me that he had secured the horse for me,
and that I was to go and pay for it at noon.  At the hour appointed,
therefore, I went with Mr. Petulengro and Tawno to the public, where, as
before, there was a crowd of company.  The landlord received us in the
bar with marks of much satisfaction and esteem, made us sit down, and
treated us with some excellent mild draught ale.  “Who do you think has
been here this morning?” he said to me; “why, that fellow in black, who
came to carry me off to a house of Popish devotion, where I was to pass
seven days and nights in meditation, as I think he called it, before I
publicly renounced the religion of my country.  I read him a pretty
lecture, calling him several unhandsome names, and asking him what he
meant by attempting to seduce a churchwarden of the Church of England.  I
tell you what, he ran some danger; for some of my customers, learning his
errand, laid hold on him, and were about to toss him in a blanket, and
then duck him in the horse-pond.  I, however, interfered, and said, ‘that
what he came about was between me and him, and that it was no business of
theirs’.  To tell you the truth, I felt pity for the poor devil, more
especially when I considered that they merely sided against him because
they thought him the weakest, and that they would have wanted to serve me
in the same manner had they considered me a down pin; so I rescued him
from their hands, told him not to be afraid, for that nobody should touch
him, and offered to treat him to some cold gin and water with a lump of
sugar in it; and on his refusing, told him that he had better make
himself scarce, which he did, and I hope I shall never see him again.  So
I suppose you are come for the horse; mercy upon us! who would have
thought you would have become the purchaser?  The horse, however, seemed
to know it by his neighing.  How did you ever come by the money? however,
that’s no matter of mine.  I suppose you are strongly backed by certain
friends you have.”

I informed the landlord that he was right in supposing that I came for
the horse, but that, before I paid for him, I should wish to prove his
capabilities.  “With all my heart,” said the landlord.  “You shall mount
him this moment.”  Then going into the stable, he saddled and bridled the
horse, and presently brought him out before the door.  I mounted him, Mr.
Petulengro putting a heavy whip into my hand, and saying a few words to
me in his own mysterious language.  “The horse wants no whip,” said the
landlord.  “Hold your tongue, daddy,” said Mr. Petulengro.  “My pal knows
quite well what to do with the whip, he’s not going to beat the horse
with it.”  About four hundred yards from the house there was a hill, to
the foot of which the road ran almost on a perfect level; towards the
foot of this hill, I trotted the horse, who set off at a long, swift
pace, seemingly at the rate of about sixteen miles an hour.  On reaching
the foot of the hill, I wheeled the animal round, and trotted him towards
the house—the horse sped faster than before.  Ere he had advanced a
hundred yards, I took off my hat, in obedience to the advice which Mr.
Petulengro had given me, in his own language, and holding it over the
horse’s head commenced drumming on the crown with the knob of the whip;
the horse gave a slight start, but instantly recovering himself,
continued his trot till he arrived at the door of the public-house,
amidst the acclamations of the company, who had all rushed out of the
house to be spectators of what was going on.  “I see now what you wanted
the whip for,” said the landlord, “and sure enough, that drumming on your
hat was no bad way of learning whether the horse was quiet or not.  Well,
did you ever see a more quiet horse, or a better trotter?”  “My cob shall
trot against him,” said a fellow, dressed in velveteen, mounted on a low
powerful-looking animal.  “My cob shall trot against him to the hill and
back again—come on!”  We both started; the cob kept up gallantly against
the horse for about half the way to the hill, when he began to lose
ground; at the foot of the hill he was about fifteen yards behind.
Whereupon I turned slowly and waited for him.  We then set off towards
the house, but now the cob had no chance, being at least twenty yards
behind when I reached the door.  This running of horses, the wild uncouth
forms around me, and the ale and beer which were being guzzled from pots
and flagons, put me wonderfully in mind of the ancient horse-races of the
heathen north.  I almost imagined myself Gunnar of Hlitharend at the race
of — —.

“Are you satisfied?” said the landlord.  “Didn’t you tell me that he
could leap?” I demanded.  “I am told he can,” said the landlord; “but I
can’t consent that he should be tried in that way, as he might be
damaged.”  “That’s right!” said Mr. Petulengro, “don’t trust my pal to
leap that horse, he’ll merely fling him down, and break his neck and his
own.  There’s a better man than he close by; let him get on his back and
leap him.”  “You mean yourself, I suppose,” said the landlord.  “Well, I
call that talking modestly, and nothing becomes a young man more than
modesty.”  “It a’n’t I, daddy,” said Mr. Petulengro.  “Here’s the man,”
said he, pointing to Tawno.  “Here’s the horse-leaper of the world!”
“You mean the horse-back breaker,” said the landlord.  “That big fellow
would break down my cousin’s horse.”  “Why, he weighs only sixteen
stone,” said Mr. Petulengro.  “And his sixteen stone, with his way of
handling a horse, does not press so much as any other one’s thirteen.
Only let him get on the horse’s back, and you’ll see what he can do!”
“No,” said the landlord, “it won’t do.”  Whereupon Mr. Petulengro became
very much excited, and pulling out a handful of money, said: “I’ll tell
you what, I’ll forfeit these guineas, if my black pal there does the
horse any kind of damage; duck me in the horse-pond if I don’t.”  “Well,”
said the landlord, “for the sport of the thing I consent, so let your
white pal get down, and your black pal mount as soon as he pleases.”  I
felt rather mortified at Mr. Petulengro’s interference, and showed no
disposition to quit my seat; whereupon he came up to me and said: “Now,
brother, do get out of the saddle—you are no bad hand at trotting, I am
willing to acknowledge that; but at leaping a horse there is no one like
Tawno.  Let every dog be praised for his own gift.  You have been showing
off in your line for the last half-hour; now do give Tawno a chance of
exhibiting a little; poor fellow, he hasn’t often a chance of exhibiting,
as his wife keeps him so much out of sight.”  Not wishing to appear
desirous of engrossing the public attention, and feeling rather desirous
to see how Tawno, of whose exploits in leaping horses I had frequently
heard, would acquit himself in the affair, I at length dismounted, and
Tawno at a bound, leaped into the saddle, where he really looked like
Gunnar of Hlitharend, save and except the complexion of Gunnar was
florid, whereas that of Tawno was of nearly Mulatto darkness; and that
all Tawno’s features were cast in the Grecian model, whereas Gunnar had a
snub nose.  “There’s a leaping-bar behind the house,” said the landlord.
“Leaping-bar!” said Mr. Petulengro scornfully.  “Do you think my black
pal ever rides at a leaping-bar?  No more than at a windle-straw.  Leap
over that meadow-wall, Tawno.”  Just past the house, in the direction in
which I had been trotting, was a wall about four feet high, beyond which
was a small meadow.  Tawno rode the horse gently up to the wall,
permitted him to look over, then backed him for about ten yards, and
pressing his calves against the horse’s sides, he loosed the rein, and
the horse launching forward, took the leap in gallant style.  “Well done,
man and horse!” said Mr. Petulengro; “now come back, Tawno.”  The leap
from the side of the meadow was, however, somewhat higher; and the horse,
when pushed at it, at first turned away; whereupon Tawno backed him to a
greater distance, pushed the horse to a full gallop, giving a wild cry;
whereupon the horse again took the wall, slightly grazing one of his legs
against it.  “A near thing,” said the landlord, “but a good leap.  Now,
no more leaping, so long as I have control over the animal.”  The horse
was then led back to the stable; and the landlord, myself and companions
going into the bar, I paid down the money for the horse.

Scarcely was the bargain concluded, when two or three of the company
began to envy me the possession of the horse, and forcing their way into
the bar, with much noise and clamour, said that the horse had been sold
too cheap.  One fellow, in particular, with a red waistcoat, the son of a
wealthy farmer, said that if he had but known that the horse had been so
good a one, he would have bought it at the first price asked for it,
which he was now willing to pay, that is to-morrow, supposing—“supposing
your father will let you have the money,” said the landlord, “which,
after all, might not be the case, but, however that may be, it is too
late now.  I think myself the horse has been sold for too little money,
but if so, all the better for the young man, who came forward when no
other body did with his money in his hand.  There, take yourselves out of
my bar,” said he to the fellows; “and a pretty scoundrel you,” said he to
the man of the red waistcoat, “to say the horse has been sold too cheap;
why, it was only yesterday you said he was good for nothing, and were
passing all kinds of jokes at him.  Take yourself out of my bar, I say,
you and all of you,” and he turned the fellows out.  I then asked the
landlord whether he would permit the horse to remain in the stable for a
short time, provided I paid for his entertainment; and on his willingly
consenting, I treated my friends with ale, and then returned with them to
the encampment.

That evening I informed Mr. Petulengro and his party that on the morrow I
intended to mount my horse and leave that part of the country in quest of
adventures; inquiring of Jasper where, in the event of my selling the
horse advantageously, I might meet with him, and repay the money I had
borrowed of him; whereupon Mr. Petulengro informed me that in about ten
weeks I might find him at a certain place at the Chong gav.  I then
stated that as I could not well carry with me the property which I
possessed in the dingle, which after all was of no considerable value, I
had resolved to bestow the said property, namely, the pony, tent,
tinker-tools, etc., on Ursula and her husband, partly because they were
poor, and partly on account of the great kindness which I bore to Ursula,
from whom I had, on various occasions, experienced all manner of
civility, particularly in regard to crabbed words.  On hearing this
intelligence, Ursula returned many thanks to her gentle brother, as she
called me, and Sylvester was so overjoyed that, casting aside his usual
phlegm, he said I was the best friend he had ever had in the world, and
in testimony of his gratitude swore that he would permit me to give his
wife a choomer in the presence of the whole company, which offer,
however, met with a very mortifying reception, the company frowning
disapprobation, Ursula protesting against anything of the kind, and I
myself showing no forwardness to avail myself of it, having inherited
from nature a considerable fund of modesty, to which was added no slight
store acquired in the course of my Irish education.  I passed that night
alone in the dingle in a very melancholy manner, with little or no sleep,
thinking of Isopel Berners, and in the morning when I quitted it 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.




CHAPTER XX.


ON reaching the plain above, I found my Romany friends breakfasting, and
on being asked by Mr. Petulengro to join them, I accepted the invitation.
No sooner was breakfast over than I informed Ursula and her husband that
they would find the property, which I had promised them, below in the
dingle, commending the little pony Ambrol to their best care.  I took
leave of the whole company, which was itself about to break up camp and
to depart in the direction of London, and made the best of my way to the
public-house.  I had a small bundle in my hand, and was dressed in the
same manner as when I departed from London, having left my waggoner’s
slop with the other effects in the dingle.  On arriving at the
public-house, I informed the landlord that I was come for my horse,
inquiring, at the same time, whether he could not accommodate me with a
bridle and saddle.  He told me that the bridle and saddle, with which I
had ridden the horse on the preceding day, were at my service for a
trifle; that he had received them some time since in payment for a debt,
and that he had himself no use for them.  The leathers of the bridle were
rather shabby, and the bit rusty, and the saddle was old-fashioned; but I
was happy to purchase them for seven shillings, more especially as the
landlord added a small valise, which he said could be strapped to the
saddle, and which I should find very convenient for carrying my things
in.  I then proceeded to the stable, told the horse we were bound on an
expedition, and giving him a feed of corn, left him to discuss it, and
returned to the bar-room to have a little farewell chat with the
landlord, and at the same time to drink with him a farewell glass of ale.
Whilst we were talking and drinking, the niece came and joined us: she
was a decent, sensible young woman, who appeared to take a great interest
in her uncle, whom she regarded with a singular mixture of pride and
disapprobation—pride for the renown which he had acquired by his feats of
old, and disapprobation for his late imprudences.  She said that she
hoped that his misfortunes would be a warning to him to turn more to his
God than he had hitherto done, and to give up cock-fighting and other
low-life practices.  To which the landlord replied, that with respect to
cock-fighting he intended to give it up entirely, being determined no
longer to risk his capital upon birds, and with respect to his religious
duties, he should attend the church of which he was churchwarden at least
once a quarter, adding, however, that he did not intend to become either
canter or driveller, neither of which characters would befit a publican
surrounded by such customers as he was, and that to the last day of his
life he hoped to be able to make use of his fists.  After a stay of about
two hours I settled accounts, and having bridled and saddled my horse,
and strapped on the valise, I mounted, shook hands with the landlord and
his niece, and departed, notwithstanding that they both entreated me to
tarry until the evening, it being then the heat of the day.




CHAPTER XXI.


I BENT my course in the direction of the north, more induced by chance
than any particular motive; all quarters of the world having about equal
attractions for me.  I was in high spirits at finding myself once more on
horseback, and trotted gaily on, until the heat of the weather induced me
to slacken my pace, more out of pity for my horse than because I felt any
particular inconvenience from it—heat and cold being then, and still,
matters of great indifference to me.  What I thought of I scarcely know,
save and except that I have a glimmering recollection that I felt some
desire to meet with one of those adventures which upon the roads of
England are generally as plentiful as blackberries in autumn; and
Fortune, who has generally been ready to gratify my inclinations,
provided it cost her very little by so doing, was not slow in furnishing
me with an adventure, perhaps as characteristic of the English roads as
anything which could have happened.

I might have travelled about six miles amongst cross roads and lanes,
when suddenly I found myself upon a broad and very dusty road which
seemed to lead due north.  As I wended along this I saw a man upon a
donkey riding towards me.  The man was commonly dressed, with a broad
felt hat on his head, and a kind of satchel on his back; he seemed to be
in a mighty hurry, and was every now and then belabouring the donkey with
a cudgel.  The donkey, however, which was a fine large creature of the
silver-grey species, did not appear to sympathise at all with its rider
in his desire to get on, but kept its head turned back as much as
possible, moving from one side of the road to the other, and not making
much forward way.  As I passed, being naturally of a very polite
disposition, I gave the man the sele of the day, asking him, at the same
time, why he beat the donkey; whereupon the fellow eyeing me askance,
told me to mind my own business, with the addition of something which I
need not repeat.  I had not proceeded a furlong before I saw seated on
the dust by the wayside, close by a heap of stones, and with several
flints before him, a respectable-looking old man, with a straw hat and a
white smock, who was weeping bitterly.

“What are you crying for, father?” said I.  “Have you come to any hurt?”
“Hurt enough,” sobbed the old man.  “I have just been tricked out of the
best ass in England by a villain, who gave me nothing but these trash in
return,” pointing to the stones before him.  “I really scarcely
understand you,” said I; “I wish you would explain yourself more
clearly.”  “I was riding on my ass from market,” said the old man, “when
I met here a fellow with a sack on his back, who, after staring at the
ass and me a moment or two, asked me if I would sell her.  I told him
that I could not think of selling her, as she was very useful to me, and
though an animal, my true companion, whom I loved as much as if she were
my wife and daughter.  I then attempted to pass on, but the fellow stood
before me, begging me to sell her, saying that he would give me anything
for her; well, seeing that he persisted, I said at last that if I sold
her, I must have six pounds for her, and I said so to get rid of him, for
I saw that he was a shabby fellow, who had probably not six shillings in
the world; but I had better have held my tongue,” said the old man,
crying more bitterly than before, “for the words were scarcely out of my
mouth, when he said he would give me what I asked, and taking the sack
from his back, he pulled out a steelyard, and going to the heap of stones
there, he took up several of them and weighed them, then flinging them
down before me, he said: ‘There are six pounds, neighbour; now, get off
the ass, and hand her over to me’.  Well, I sat like one dumbfoundered
for a time, till at last I asked him what he meant?  ‘What do I mean?’
said he, ‘you old rascal, why, I mean to claim my purchase,’ and then he
swore so awfully, that scarcely knowing what I did I got down, and he
jumped on the animal and rode off as fast as he could.”  “I suppose he
was the fellow,” said I, “whom I just now met upon a fine grey ass, which
he was beating with a cudgel.”  “I daresay he was,” said the old man; “I
saw him beating her as he rode away, and I thought I should have died.”
“I never heard such a story,” said I; “well, do you mean to submit to
such a piece of roguery quietly?”  “Oh, dear,” said the old man, “what
can I do?  I am seventy-nine years of age; I am bad on my feet, and
dar’n’t go after him.”  “Shall I go?” said I; “the fellow is a thief, and
any one has a right to stop him.”  “Oh, if you could but bring her again
to me,” said the old man, “I would bless you to my dying day; but have a
care; I don’t know but after all the law may say that she is his lawful
purchase.  I asked six pounds for her, and he gave me six pounds.”  “Six
flints, you mean,” said I; “no, no, the law is not quite so bad as that
either; I know something about her, and am sure that she will never
sanction such a quibble.  At all events, I’ll ride after the fellow.”
Thereupon turning the horse round, I put him to his very best trot; I
rode nearly a mile without obtaining a glimpse of the fellow, and was
becoming apprehensive that he had escaped me by turning down some
by-path, two or three of which I had passed.  Suddenly, however, on the
road making a slight turning, I perceived him right before me, moving at
a tolerably swift pace, having by this time probably overcome the
resistance of the animal.  Putting my horse to a full gallop, I shouted
at the top of my voice: “Get off that donkey, you rascal, and give her up
to me, or I’ll ride you down”.  The fellow hearing the thunder of the
horse’s hoofs behind him, drew up on one side of the road.  “What do you
want?” said he, as I stopped my charger, now almost covered with sweat
and foam close beside him.  “Do you want to rob me?”  “To rob you?” said
I.  “No! but to take from you that ass, of which you have just robbed its
owner.”  “I have robbed no man,” said the fellow; “I just now purchased
it fairly of its master, and the law will give it to me; he asked six
pounds for it, and I gave him six pounds.”  “Six stones, you mean, you
rascal,” said I; “get down, or my horse shall be upon you in a moment;”
then with a motion of my reins, I caused the horse to rear, pressing his
sides with my heels as if I intended to make him leap.  “Stop,” said the
man, “I’ll get down and then try if I can’t serve you out.”  He then got
down, and confronted me with his cudgel; he was a horrible-looking
fellow, and seemed prepared for anything.  Scarcely, however, had he
dismounted, when the donkey jerked the bridle out of his hand, and
probably in revenge for the usage she had received, gave him a pair of
tremendous kicks on the hip with her hinder legs, which overturned him,
and then scampered down the road the way she had come.  “Pretty treatment
this,” said the fellow, getting up without his cudgel, and holding his
hand to his side; “I wish I may not be lamed for life”.  “And if you be,”
said I, “it would merely serve you right, you rascal, for trying to cheat
a poor old man out of his property by quibbling at words.”  “Rascal!”
said the fellow, “you lie, I am no rascal; and as for quibbling with
words—suppose I did!  What then?  All the first people does it!  The
newspapers does it! the gentlefolks that calls themselves the guides of
the popular mind does it!  I’m no ignoramus.  I reads the newspapers, and
knows what’s what.”  “You read them to some purpose,” said I.  “Well, if
you are lamed for life, and unfitted for any active line—turn newspaper
editor; I should say you are perfectly qualified, and this day’s
adventure may be the foundation of your fortune,” thereupon I turned
round and rode off.  The fellow followed me with a torrent of abuse.
“Confound you,” said he—yet that was not the expression either—“I know
you; you are one of the horse-patrol come down into the country on leave
to see your relations.  Confound you, you and the like of you have
knocked my business on the head near Lunnon, and I suppose we shall have
you shortly in the country.”  “To the newspaper office,” said I, “and
fabricate falsehoods out of flint stones;” then touching the horse with
my heels, I trotted off, and coming to the place where I had seen the old
man, I found him there, risen from the ground, and embracing his ass.

I told him that I was travelling down the road, and said that if his way
lay in the same direction as mine he could do no better than accompany me
for some distance, lest the fellow who, for aught I knew, might be
hovering nigh, might catch him alone, and again get his ass from him.
After thanking me for my offer, which he said he would accept, he got
upon his ass, and we proceeded together down the road.  My new
acquaintance said very little of his own accord; and when I asked him a
question, answered rather incoherently.  I heard him every now and then
say, “Villain!” to himself, after which he would pat the donkey’s neck,
from which circumstance I concluded that his mind was occupied with his
late adventure.  After travelling about two miles, we reached a place
where a drift-way on the right led from the great road; here my companion
stopped, and on my asking whether he was going any farther, he told me
that the path to the right was the way to his home.

I was bidding him farewell, when he hemmed once or twice, and said, that
as he did not live far off, he hoped that I would go with him and taste
some of his mead.  As I had never tasted mead, of which I had frequently
read in the compositions of the Welsh bards, and, moreover, felt rather
thirsty from the heat of the day, I told him that I should have great
pleasure in attending him.  Whereupon, turning off together, we proceeded
about half a mile, sometimes between stone walls, and at other times
hedges, till we reached a small hamlet, through which we passed, and
presently came to a very pretty cottage, delightfully situated within a
garden, surrounded by a hedge of woodbines.  Opening a gate at one corner
of the garden he led the way to a large shed, which stood partly behind
the cottage, which he said was his stable; thereupon he dismounted and
led his donkey into the shed, which was without stalls, but had a long
rack and manger.  On one side he tied his donkey, after taking off her
caparisons, and I followed his example, tying my horse at the other side
with a rope halter which he gave me; he then asked me to come in and
taste his mead, but I told him that I must attend to the comfort of my
horse first, and forthwith, taking a wisp of straw, rubbed him carefully
down.  Then taking a pailful of clear water which stood in the shed, I
allowed the horse to drink about half a pint; and then turning to the old
man, who all the time had stood by looking at my proceedings, I asked him
whether he had any oats?  “I have all kinds of grain,” he replied; and,
going out, he presently returned with two measures, one a large and the
other a small one, both filled with oats, mixed with a few beans, and
handing the large one to me for the horse, he emptied the other before
the donkey, who, before she began to despatch it, turned her nose to her
master’s face, and fairly kissed him.  Having given my horse his portion,
I told the old man that I was ready to taste his mead as soon as he
pleased, whereupon he ushered me into his cottage, where, making me sit
down by a deal table in a neatly sanded kitchen, he produced from an
old-fashioned closet a bottle, holding about a quart, and a couple of
cups, which might each contain about half a pint, then opening the bottle
and filling the cups with a brown- liquor, he handed one to me,
and taking a seat opposite to me he lifted the other, nodded, and saying
to me: “Health and welcome,” placed it to his lips and drank.

“Health and thanks,” I replied, and being very thirsty, emptied my cup at
a draught I had scarcely done so, however, when I half-repented.  The
mead was deliciously sweet and mellow, but appeared strong as brandy; my
eyes reeled in my head, and my brain became slightly dizzy.  “Mead is a
strong drink,” said the old man, as he looked at me, with half a smile on
his countenance.  “This is at any rate,” said I, “so strong, indeed, that
I would not drink another cup for any consideration.”  “And I would not
ask you,” said the old man; “for, if you did, you would most probably be
stupid all day, and wake next morning with a headache.  Mead is a good
drink, but woundily strong, especially to those who be not used to it, as
I suppose you are not.”  “Where do you get it?” said I.  “I make it
myself,” said the old man, “from the honey which my bees make.”  “Have
you many bees?” I inquired.  “A great many,” said the old man.  “And do
you keep them,” said I, “for the sake of making mead with their honey?”
“I keep them,” he replied, “partly because I am fond of them, and partly
for what they bring me in; they make me a great deal of honey, some of
which I sell, and with a little I make me some mead to warm my poor heart
with, or occasionally to treat a friend with like yourself.”  “And do you
support yourself entirely by means of your bees?”  “No,” said the old
man; “I have a little bit of ground behind my house, which is my
principal means of support.”  “And do you live alone?”  “Yes,” said he;
“with the exception of the bees and the donkey, I live quite alone.”
“And have you always lived alone?”  The old man emptied his cup, and his
heart being warmed with the mead, he told me his history, which was
simplicity itself.  His father was a small yeoman, who, at his death, had
left him, his only child, the cottage, with a small piece of ground
behind it, and on this little property he had lived ever since.  About
the age of twenty-five he had married an industrious young woman, by whom
he had one daughter, who died before reaching years of womanhood.  His
wife, however, had survived her daughter many years, and had been a great
comfort to him, assisting him in his rural occupations: but, about four
years before the present period, he had lost her, since which time he had
lived alone, making himself as comfortable as he could; cultivating his
ground, with the help of a lad from the neighbouring village, attending
to his bees, and occasionally riding his donkey to market, and hearing
the word of God, which he said he was sorry he could not read, twice a
week regularly at the parish church.  Such was the old man’s tale.

When he had finished speaking, he led me behind his house, and showed me
his little domain.  It consisted of about two acres in admirable
cultivation; a small portion of it formed a kitchen garden, whilst the
rest was sown with four kinds of grain, wheat, barley, peas and beans.
The air was full of ambrosial sweets, resembling those proceeding from an
orange grove, a place which though I had never seen at that time, I since
have.  In the garden was the habitation of the bees, a long box,
supported upon three oaken stumps.  It was full of small round glass
windows, and appeared to be divided into a great many compartments, much
resembling drawers placed sideways.  He told me that, as one compartment
was filled, the bees left it for another; so that, whenever he wanted
honey, he could procure some without injuring the insects.  Through the
little round windows I could see several of the bees at work; hundreds
were going in and out of the doors; hundreds were buzzing about on the
flowers, the woodbines and beans.  As I looked around on the
well-cultivated field, the garden, and the bees, I thought I had never
before seen so rural and peaceful a scene.

When we returned to the cottage we again sat down, and I asked the old
man whether he was not afraid to live alone.  He told me that he was not,
for that, upon the whole, his neighbours were very kind to him.  I
mentioned the fellow who had swindled him of his donkey upon the road.
“That was no neighbour of mine,” said the old man, “and, perhaps, I shall
never see him again, or his like.”  “It’s a dreadful thing,” said I, “to
have no other resource, when injured, than to shed tears on the road.”
“It is so,” said the old man; “but God saw the tears of the old, and sent
a helper.”  “Why did you not help yourself?” said I.  “Instead of getting
off your ass, why did you not punch at the fellow, or at any rate use
dreadful language, call him villain, and shout robbery?”  “Punch!” said
the old man, “shout! what, with these hands, and this voice—Lord, how you
run on!  I am old, young chap, I am old!”  “Well,” said I, “it is a
shameful thing to cry even when old.”  “You think so now,” said the old
man, “because you are young and strong; perhaps when you are as old as I,
you will not be ashamed to cry.”

Upon the whole I was rather pleased with the old man, and much with all
about him.  As evening drew nigh, I told him that I must proceed on my
journey; whereupon he invited me to tarry with him during the night,
telling me that he had a nice room and bed above at my service.  I,
however, declined, and bidding him farewell, mounted my horse and
departed.  Regaining the road, I proceeded once more in the direction of
the north; and, after a few hours, coming to a comfortable public-house,
I stopped, and put up for the night.




CHAPTER XXII.


I DID not awake till rather late the next morning, and when I did, I felt
considerable drowsiness, with a slight headache, which I was uncharitable
enough to attribute to the mead which I had drunk on the preceding day.
After feeding my horse, and breakfasting, I proceeded on my wanderings.
Nothing occurred worthy of relating till midday was considerably past,
when I came to a pleasant valley, between two gentle hills.  I had
dismounted, in order to ease my horse, and was leading him along by the
bridle, when, on my right, behind a bank in which some umbrageous ashes
were growing, I heard a singular noise.  I stopped short and listened,
and presently said to myself: “Surely this is snoring, perhaps that of a
hedgehog”.  On further consideration, however, I was convinced that the
noise which I heard, and which certainly seemed to be snoring, could not
possibly proceed from the nostrils of so small an animal, but must rather
come from those of a giant, so loud and sonorous was it.  About two or
three yards farther was a gate, partly open, to which I went, and peeping
into the field, saw a man lying on some rich grass, under the shade of
one of the ashes; he was snoring away at a great rate.  Impelled by
curiosity, I fastened the bridle of my horse to the gate, and went up to
the man.  He was a genteelly-dressed individual; rather corpulent, with
dark features, and seemingly about forty-five.  He lay on his back, his
hat slightly over his brow, and at his right hand lay an open book.  So
strenuously did he snore that the wind from his nostrils agitated,
perceptibly, a fine cambric frill which he wore at his bosom.  I gazed
upon him for some time, expecting that he might awake; but he did not,
but kept on snoring, his breast heaving convulsively.  At last, the noise
he made became so terrible, that I felt alarmed for his safety, imagining
that a fit might seize him, and he lose his life while fast asleep.  I
therefore exclaimed: “Sir, sir, awake! you sleep overmuch”.  But my voice
failed to rouse him, and he continued snoring as before; whereupon I
touched him slightly with my riding wand, but failing to wake him, I
touched him again more vigorously; whereupon he opened his eyes, and,
probably imagining himself in a dream, closed them again.  But I was
determined to arouse him, and cried as loud as I could: “Sir, sir, pray
sleep no more!”  He heard what I said, opened his eyes again, stared at
me with a look of some consciousness, and, half-raising himself upon his
elbows, asked me what was the matter.  “I beg your pardon,” said I, “but
I took the liberty of awaking you, because you appeared to be much
disturbed in your sleep; I was fearful, too, that you might catch a fever
from sleeping under a tree.”  “I run no risk,” said the man, “I often
come and sleep here; and as for being disturbed in my sleep, I felt very
comfortable; I wish you had not awoke me.”  “Well,” said I, “I beg your
pardon once more.  I assure you that what I did was with the best
intention.”  “Oh! pray make no further apology,” said the individual; “I
make no doubt that what you did was done kindly; but there’s an old
proverb, to the effect, ‘that you should let sleeping dogs lie,’” he
added with a smile.  Then, getting up, and stretching himself with a
yawn, he took up his book and said: “I have slept quite long enough, and
it’s quite time for me to be going home.”  “Excuse my curiosity,” said I,
“if I inquire what may induce you to come and sleep in this meadow?”  “To
tell you the truth,” answered he, “I am a bad sleeper.”  “Pray, pardon
me,” said I, “if I tell you that I never saw one sleep more heartily.”
“If I did so,” said the individual, “I am beholden to this meadow and
this book; but I am talking riddles, and will explain myself.  I am the
owner of a very pretty property, of which this valley forms part.  Some
years ago, however, up started a person who said the property was his; a
lawsuit ensued, and I was on the brink of losing my all, when, most
unexpectedly, the suit was determined in my favour.  Owing, however, to
the anxiety to which my mind had been subjected for years, my nerves had
become terribly shaken; and no sooner was the trial terminated than sleep
forsook my pillow.  I sometimes passed nights without closing an eye; I
took opiates, but they rather increased than alleviated my malady.  About
three weeks ago a friend of mine put this book into my hand, and advised
me to take it every day to some pleasant part of my estate, and try and
read a page or two, assuring me, if I did, that I should infallibly fall
asleep.  I took his advice, and selecting this place, which I considered
the pleasantest part of my property, I came, and lying down, commenced
reading the book, and before finishing a page was in a dead slumber.
Every day since then I have repeated the experiment, and every time with
equal success.  I am a single man, without any children; and yesterday I
made my will, in which, in the event of my friend’s surviving me, I have
left him all my fortune, in gratitude for his having procured for me the
most invaluable of all blessings—sleep.”

“Dear me,” said I, “how very extraordinary!  Do you think that your going
to sleep is caused by the meadow or the book?”  “I suppose by both,” said
my new acquaintance, “acting in co-operation.”  “It may be so,” said I;
“the magic influence does certainly not proceed from the meadow alone;
for since I have been here, I have not felt the slightest inclination to
sleep.  Does the book consist of prose or poetry?”  “It consists of
poetry,” said the individual.  “Not Byron’s?” said I.  “Byron’s!”
repeated the individual, with a smile of contempt; “no, no; there is
nothing narcotic in Byron’s poetry.  I don’t like it.  I used to read it,
but it thrilled, agitated and kept me awake.  No; this is not Byron’s
poetry, but the inimitable —’s”—mentioning a name that I had never heard
till then.  “Will you permit me to look at it?” said I.  “With pleasure,”
he answered, politely handing me the book.  I took the volume, and
glanced over the contents.  It was written in blank verse, and appeared
to abound in descriptions of scenery; there was much mention of
mountains, valleys, streams and waterfalls, harebells and daffodils.
These descriptions were interspersed with dialogues, which though they
proceeded from the mouths of pedlars and rustics, were of the most
edifying description; mostly on subjects moral or metaphysical, and
couched in the most gentlemanly and unexceptionable language, without the
slightest mixture of vulgarity, coarseness or pie-bald grammar.  Such
appeared to me to be the contents of the book; but before I could form a
very clear idea of them, I found myself nodding, and a surprising desire
to sleep coming over me.  Rousing myself, however, by a strong effort, I
closed the book, and, returning it to the owner, inquired of him,
“Whether he had any motive in coming and lying down in the meadow,
besides the wish of enjoying sleep?”  “None whatever,” he replied;
“indeed, I should be very glad not to be compelled to do so, always
provided I could enjoy the blessing of sleep; for by lying down under
trees, I may possibly catch the rheumatism, or be stung by serpents; and,
moreover, in the rainy season and winter the thing will be impossible,
unless I erect a tent, which will possibly destroy the charm.”  “Well,”
said I, “you need give yourself no further trouble about coming here, as
I am fully convinced that with this book in your hand, you may go to
sleep anywhere, as your friend was doubtless aware, though he wished to
interest your imagination for a time by persuading you to lie abroad;
therefore, in future, whenever you feel disposed to sleep, try to read
the book, and you will be sound asleep in a minute, the narcotic
influence lies in the book, and not the field.”  “I will follow your
advice,” said the individual; “and this very night take it with me to
bed, though I hope in time to be able to sleep without it, my nerves
being already much quieted from the slumbers I have enjoyed in this
field.”  He then moved towards the gate, where we parted, he going one
way and I and my horse the other.

More than twenty years subsequent to this period, after much wandering
about the world, returning to my native country, I was invited to a
literary tea-party, where, the discourse turning upon poetry, I, in order
to show that I was not more ignorant than my neighbours, began to talk
about Byron, for whose writings I really entertained considerable
admiration, though I had no particular esteem for the man himself.  At
first, I received no answer to what I said—the company merely surveying
me with a kind of sleepy stare.  At length a lady, about the age of
forty, with a large wart on her face, observed in a drawling tone, “That
she had not read Byron—at least, since her girlhood—and then only a few
passages; but that the impression on her mind was that his writings were
of a highly objectionable character.”  “I also read a little of him in my
boyhood,” said a gentleman about sixty, but who evidently, from his dress
and demeanour, wished to appear about thirty, “but I highly disapproved
of him; for notwithstanding he was a nobleman, he is frequently very
coarse, and very fond of raising emotion.  Now emotion is what I
dislike,” drawling out the last syllable of the word dislike.  “There is
only one poet for me—the divine —” and then he mentioned a name which I
had only once heard, and afterwards quite forgotten, the name mentioned
by the snorer in the field.  “Ah! there is no one like him!” murmured
some more of the company; “the poet of nature—of nature without its
vulgarity.”  I wished very much to ask these people whether they were
ever bad sleepers, and whether they had read the poet, so called, from a
desire of being set to sleep.  Within a few days, however, I learnt that
it had of late become very fashionable and genteel to appear half-asleep,
and that one could exhibit no better mark of superfine breeding than by
occasionally in company setting one’s rhonchal organ in action.  I then
ceased to wonder at the popularity, which I found nearly universal, of
—’s poetry; for, certainly in order to make one’s self appear sleepy in
company, or occasionally to induce sleep, nothing could be more
efficacious than a slight prelection of his poems.  So poor Byron, with
his fire and emotion—to say nothing of his mouthings and coxcombry—was
dethroned, as I had prophesied he would be more than twenty years before,
on the day of his funeral, though I had little idea that his humiliation,
would have been brought about by one, whose sole strength consists in
setting people to sleep.  Well, all things are doomed to terminate in
sleep.  Before that termination, however, I will venture to prophesy that
people will become a little more awake, snoring and yawning be a little
less in fashion, and poor Byron be once more reinstated on his throne,
though his rival will always stand a good chance of being worshipped by
those whose ruined nerves are insensible to the narcotic powers of opium
and morphine.




CHAPTER XXIII.


I CONTINUED my journey, passing through one or two villages.  The day was
exceedingly hot, and the roads dusty.  In order to cause my horse as
little fatigue as possible, and not to chafe his back, I led him by the
bridle, my doing which brought upon me a shower of remarks, jests and
would-be witticisms from the drivers and front outside passengers of
sundry stage-coaches which passed me in one direction or the other.  In
this way I proceeded till considerably past noon, when I felt myself very
fatigued, and my horse appeared no less so; and it is probable that the
lazy and listless manner in which we were moving on, tired us both much
more effectually than hurrying along at a swift trot would have done, for
I have observed that when the energies of the body are not exerted a
languor frequently comes over it.  At length arriving at a very large
building with an archway, near the entrance of a town, I sat down on what
appeared to be a stepping-block, and presently experienced a great
depression of spirits.  I began to ask myself whither I was going, and
what I should do with myself and the horse which I held by the bridle?
It appeared to me that I was alone in the world with the poor animal, who
looked for support to me, who knew not how to support myself.  Then the
image of Isopel Berners came into my mind, and when I thought how I had
lost her for ever, and how happy I might have been with her in the New
World had she not deserted me, I became yet more miserable.

[Picture: The “Swan” Inn, Stafford (“My Inn—a very large Building with an
                                Archway”)]

As I sat in this state of mind, I suddenly felt some one clap me on the
shoulder, and heard a voice say: “Ha! comrade of the dingle, what chance
has brought you into these parts?”  “I turned round, and beheld a man in
the dress of a postillion, whom I instantly recognised as he to whom I
had rendered assistance on the night of the storm.

“Ah!” said I, “is it you?  I am glad to see you, for I was feeling very
lonely and melancholy.”

“Lonely and melancholy,” he replied, “how is that? how can any one be
lonely and melancholy with such a noble horse as that you hold by the
bridle?”

“The horse,” said I, “is one cause of my melancholy, for I know not in
the world what to do with it.”

“Is it your own?”

“Yes,” said I, “I may call it my own, though I borrowed the money to
purchase it.”

“Well, why don’t you sell it?”

“It is not always easy to find a purchaser for a horse like this,” said
I; “can you recommend me one?”

“I?  Why no, not exactly; but you’ll find a purchaser shortly—pooh! if
you have no other cause for disquiet than that horse, cheer up, man,
don’t be cast down.  Have you nothing else on your mind?  By-the-bye,
what’s become of the young woman you were keeping company with in that
queer lodging place of yours?”

“She has left me,” said I.

“You quarrelled, I suppose?”

“No,” said I, “we did not exactly quarrel, but we are parted.”

“Well,” replied he, “but you will soon come together again.”

“No,” said I, “we are parted for ever.”

“For ever!  Pooh! you little know how people sometimes come together
again who think they are parted for ever.  Here’s something on that point
relating to myself.  You remember, when I told you my story in that
dingle of yours, that I mentioned a young woman, my fellow-servant when I
lived with the English family in Mumbo Jumbo’s town, and how she and I,
when our foolish governors were thinking of changing their religion,
agreed to stand by each other, and be true to old Church of England, and
to give our governors warning, provided they tried to make us renegades.
Well, she and I parted soon after that, and never thought to meet again,
yet we met the other day in the fields, for she lately came to live with
a great family not far from here, and we have since agreed to marry, to
take a little farm, for we have both a trifle of money, and live together
till ‘death us do part’.  So much for parting for ever!  But what do I
mean by keeping you broiling in the sun with your horse’s bridle in your
hand, and you on my own ground?  Do you know where you are?  Why, that
great house is my inn, that is, it’s my master’s, the best fellow in —.
Come along, you and your horse, both will find a welcome at my inn.”

Thereupon he led the way into a large court in which there were coaches,
chaises, and a great many people; taking my horse from me, he led it into
a nice cool stall, and fastened it to the rack; he then conducted me into
a postillion’s keeping-room, which at that time chanced to be empty, and
he then fetched a pot of beer and sat down by me.

After a little conversation he asked me what I intended to do, and I told
him frankly that I did not know; whereupon he observed that, provided I
had no objection, he had little doubt that I could be accommodated for
some time at his inn.  “Our upper ostler,” said he, “died about a week
ago; he was a clever fellow, and, besides his trade, understood reading
and accounts.”

“Dear me,” said I, interrupting him, “I am not fitted for the place of
ostler; moreover, I refused the place of ostler at a public-house, which
was offered to me only a few days ago.”  The postillion burst into a
laugh.  “Ostler at a public-house, indeed! why, you would not compare a
berth at a place like that with the situation of ostler at my inn, the
first road-house in England!  However, I was not thinking of the place of
ostler for you; you are, as you say, not fitted for it, at any rate, not
at a house like this.  We have, moreover, the best under-ostler in all
England—old Bill, with the drawback that he is rather fond of drink.  We
could make shift with him very well, provided we could fall in with a man
of writing and figures, who could give an account of the hay and corn
which comes in and goes out, and wouldn’t object to give a look
occasionally at the yard.  Now it appears to me that you are just such a
kind of man, and, if you will allow me to speak to the governor, I don’t
doubt that he will gladly take you, as he feels kindly disposed towards
you from what he has heard me say concerning you.”

“And what should I do with my horse?” said I.

“The horse need give you no uneasiness,” said the postillion; “I know he
will be welcome here both for bed and manger, and, perhaps, in a little
time you may find a purchaser, as a vast number of sporting people
frequent this house.”  I offered two or three more objections, which the
postillion overcame with great force of argument, and the pot being
nearly empty, he drained it to the bottom drop, and then starting up,
left me alone.

In about twenty minutes he returned, accompanied by a highly
intelligent-looking individual, dressed in blue and black, with a
particularly white cravat, and without a hat on his head: this
individual, whom I should have mistaken for a gentleman but for the
intelligence depicted in his face, he introduced to me as the master of
the inn.  The master of the inn shook me warmly by the hand, told me that
he was happy to see me in his house, and thanked me in the handsomest
terms for the kindness I had shown to his servant in the affair of the
thunderstorm.  Then saying that he was informed I was out of employ, he
assured me that he should be most happy to engage me to keep his hay and
corn account, and as general superintendent of the yard, and that with
respect to the horse, which he was told I had, he begged to inform me
that I was perfectly at liberty to keep it at the inn upon the very best,
until I could find a purchaser; that with regard to wages—but he had no
sooner mentioned wages than I cut him short, saying, that provided I
stayed I should be most happy to serve him for bed and board, and
requested that he would allow me until the next morning to consider of
his offer; he willingly consented to my request, and, begging that I
would call for anything I pleased, left me alone with the postillion.

I passed that night until about ten o’clock with the postillion, when he
left me, having to drive a family about ten miles across the country;
before his departure, however, I told him that I had determined to accept
the offer of his governor, as he called him.  At the bottom of my heart I
was most happy that an offer had been made, which secured to myself and
the animal a comfortable retreat at a moment when I knew not whither in
the world to take myself and him.




CHAPTER XXIV.


THE inn, of which I had become an inhabitant, was a place of infinite
life and bustle.  Travellers of all descriptions, from all the cardinal
points, were continually stopping at it; and to attend to their wants,
and minister to their convenience, an army of servants, of one
description or other, was kept; waiters, chambermaids, grooms,
postillions, shoe-blacks, cooks, scullions, and what not, for there was a
barber and hair-dresser, who had been at Paris, and talked French with a
cockney accent, the French sounding all the better, as no accent is so
melodious as the cockney.  Jacks creaked in the kitchens turning round
spits, on which large joints of meat piped and smoked before the great
big fires.  There was running up and down stairs, and along galleries,
slamming of doors, cries of “Coming, sir,” and “Please to step this way,
ma’am,” during eighteen hours of the four-and-twenty.  Truly a very great
place for life and bustle was this inn.  And often in after life, when
lonely and melancholy, I have called up the time I spent there, and never
failed to become cheerful from the recollection.

I found the master of the house a very kind and civil person.  Before
being an innkeeper he had been in some other line of business; but on the
death of the former proprietor of the inn had married his widow, who was
still alive, but, being somewhat infirm, lived in a retired part of the
house.  I have said that he was kind and civil; he was, however, not one
of those people who suffer themselves to be made fools of by anybody; he
knew his customers, and had a calm, clear eye, which would look through a
man without seeming to do so.  The accommodation of his house was of the
very best description; his wines were good, his viands equally so, and
his charges not immoderate; though he very properly took care of himself.
He was no vulgar innkeeper, had a host of friends, and deserved them all.
During the time I lived with him, he was presented by a large assemblage
of his friends and customers with a dinner at his own house, which was
very costly, and at which the best of wines were sported, and after the
dinner with a piece of plate estimated at fifty guineas.  He received the
plate, made a neat speech of thanks, and when the bill was called for,
made another neat speech, in which he refused to receive one farthing for
the entertainment, ordering in at the same time two dozen more of the
best champagne, and sitting down amidst uproarious applause, and cries of
“You shall be no loser by it!”  Nothing very wonderful in such conduct,
some people will say; I don’t say there is, nor have I any intention to
endeavour to persuade the reader that the landlord was a Carlo Borromeo;
he merely gave a _quid pro quo_; but it is not every person who will give
you a _quid pro quo_.  Had he been a vulgar publican, he would have sent
in a swinging bill after receiving the plate; “but then no vulgar
publican would have been presented with plate”; perhaps not, but many a
vulgar public character has been presented with plate, whose admirers
never received a _quid pro quo_, except in the shape of a swinging bill.

I found my duties of distributing hay and corn, and keeping an account
thereof, anything but disagreeable, particularly after I had acquired the
good-will of the old ostler, who at first looked upon me with rather an
evil eye, considering me somewhat in the light of one who had usurped an
office which belonged to himself by the right of succession; but there
was little gall in the old fellow, and, by speaking kindly to him, never
giving myself any airs of assumption, but, above all, by frequently
reading the newspapers to him—for though passionately fond of news and
politics, he was unable to read—I soon succeeded in placing myself on
excellent terms with him.  A regular character was that old ostler; he
was a Yorkshireman by birth, but had seen a great deal of life in the
vicinity of London, to which, on the death of his parents, who were very
poor people, he went at a very early age.  Amongst other places where he
had served as ostler was a small inn at Hounslow, much frequented by
highwaymen, whose exploits he was fond of narrating, especially those of
Jerry Abershaw, who, he said, was a capital rider; and on hearing his
accounts of that worthy, I half regretted that the old fellow had not
been in London, and I had not formed his acquaintance about the time I
was thinking of writing the life of the said Abershaw, not doubting that
with his assistance, I could have produced a book at least as remarkable
as the life and adventures of that entirely imaginary personage Joseph
Sell; perhaps, however, I was mistaken; and whenever Abershaw’s life
shall appear before the public—and my publisher credibly informs me that
it has not yet appeared—I beg and entreat the public to state which it
likes best, the life of Abershaw or that of Sell, for which latter work I
am informed that during the last few months there has been a prodigious
demand.  My old friend, however, after talking of Abershaw, would
frequently add, that, good rider as Abershaw certainly was, he was
decidedly inferior to Richard Ferguson, generally called Galloping Dick,
who was a pal of Abershaw’s, and had enjoyed a career as long, and nearly
as remarkable as his own.  I learned from him that both were capital
customers at the Hounslow inn, and that he had frequently drank with them
in the corn-room.  He said that no man could desire more jolly or
entertaining companions over a glass of “summut,” but that upon the road
it was anything but desirable to meet them; there they were terrible,
cursing and swearing, and thrusting the muzzles of their pistols into
people’s mouths; and at this part of his locution the old man winked, and
said, in a somewhat lower voice, that upon the whole they were right in
doing so, and that when a person had once made up his mind to become a
highwayman, his best policy was to go the whole hog, fearing nothing, but
making everybody afraid of him; that people never thought of resisting a
savage-faced, foul-mouthed highwayman, and if he were taken, were afraid
to bear witness against him, lest he should get off and cut their throats
some time or other upon the roads; whereas people would resist being
robbed by a sneaking, pale-visaged rascal, and would swear bodily against
him on the first opportunity, adding, that Abershaw and Ferguson, two
most awful fellows, had enjoyed a long career, whereas two disbanded
officers of the army, who wished to rob a coach like gentlemen, had
begged the passengers’ pardon, and talked of hard necessity, had been set
upon by the passengers themselves, amongst whom were three women, pulled
from their horses, conducted to Maidstone, and hanged with as little pity
as such contemptible fellows deserved.  “There is nothing like going the
whole hog,” he repeated, “and if ever I had been a highwayman, I would
have done so; I should have thought myself all the more safe; and,
moreover, shouldn’t have despised myself.  To curry favour with those you
are robbing, sometimes at the expense of your own comrades, as I have
known fellows do, why, it is the greatest—”

“So it is,” interposed my friend the postillion, who chanced to be
present at a considerable part of the old ostler’s discourse; “it is, as
you say, the greatest of humbug, and merely, after all, gets a fellow
into trouble; but no regular bred highwayman would do it.  I say, George,
catch the Pope of Rome trying to curry favour with anybody he robs; catch
old Mumbo Jumbo currying favour with the Archbishop of Canterbury and the
Dean and Chapter, should he meet them in a stage-coach; it would be with
him, _Bricconi abbasso_, as he knocked their teeth out with the butt of
his trombone; and the old regular-built ruffian would be all the safer
for it, as Bill would say, as ten to one the Archbishop and Chapter,
after such a spice of his quality, would be afraid to swear against him,
and to hang him, even if he were in their power, though that would be the
proper way; for, if it is the greatest of all humbug for a highwayman to
curry favour with those he robs, the next greatest is to try to curry
favour with a highwayman when you have got him, by letting him off.”

Finding the old man so well acquainted with the history of highwaymen,
and taking considerable interest in the subject, having myself edited a
book containing the lives of many remarkable people who had figured on
the highway, I forthwith asked him how it was that the trade of
highwaymen had become extinct in England, as at present we never heard of
any one following it.  Whereupon he told me that many causes had
contributed to bring about that result; the principal of which were the
following: the refusal to license houses which were known to afford
shelter to highwaymen, which, amongst many others, had caused the inn at
Hounslow to be closed; the inclosure of many a wild heath in the country,
on which they were in the habit of lurking, and particularly the
establishing in the neighbourhood of London of a well-armed mounted
patrol, who rode the highwaymen down, and delivered them up to justice,
which hanged them without ceremony.

“And that would be the way to deal with Mumbo Jumbo and his gang,” said
the postillion, “should they show their visages in these realms; and I
hear by the newspapers that they are becoming every day more desperate.
Take away the licence from their public-houses, cut down the rookeries
and shadowy old avenues in which they are fond of lying in wait, in order
to sally out upon people as they pass in the roads; but, above all,
establish a good mounted police to ride after the ruffians and drag them
by the scruff of the neck to the next clink, where they might lie till
they could be properly dealt with by law; instead of which, the
Government are repealing the wise old laws enacted against such
characters, giving fresh licenses every day to their public-houses, and
saying that it would be a pity to cut down their rookeries and thickets
because they look so very picturesque; and, in fact, giving them all kind
of encouragement; why, if such behaviour is not enough to drive an honest
man mad, I know not what is.  It is of no use talking; I only wish the
power were in my hands, and if I did not make short work of them, might I
be a mere jackass postillion all the remainder of my life.”

Besides acquiring from the ancient ostler a great deal of curious
information respecting the ways and habits of the heroes of the road,
with whom he had come in contact in the early portion of his life, I
picked up from him many excellent hints relating to the art of grooming
horses.  Whilst at the inn, I frequently groomed the stage and
post-horses, and those driven up by travellers in their gigs: I was not
compelled, nor indeed expected, to do so, but I took pleasure in the
occupation; and I remember at that period one of the principal objects of
my ambition was to be a first-rate groom, and to make the skins of the
creatures I took in hand look sleek and glossy like those of moles.  I
have said that I derived valuable hints from the old man, and, indeed,
became a very tolerable groom, but there was a certain finishing touch
which I could never learn from him, though he possessed it himself, and
which I could never attain to by my own endeavours; though my want of
success certainly did not proceed from want of application, for I have
rubbed the horses down, purring and buzzing all the time, after the
genuine ostler fashion, until the perspiration fell in heavy drops upon
my shoes, and when I had done my best and asked the old fellow what he
thought of my work, I could never extract from him more than a kind of
grunt, which might be translated, “Not so very bad, but I have seen a
horse groomed much better,” which leads me to suppose that a person, in
order to be a first-rate groom, must have something in him when he is
born which I had not, and, indeed, which many other people have not who
pretend to be grooms.  What does the reader think?




CHAPTER XXV.


OF one thing I am certain, that the reader must be much delighted with
the wholesome smell of the stable, with which many of these pages are
redolent; what a contrast to the sickly odours exhaled from those of some
of my contemporaries, especially of those who pretend to be of the highly
fashionable class, and who treat of reception-rooms, well may they be
styled so, in which dukes, duchesses, earls, countesses, archbishops,
bishops, mayors, mayoresses—not forgetting the writers themselves, both
male and female—congregate and press upon one another; how cheering, how
refreshing, after having been nearly knocked down with such an
atmosphere, to come in contact with genuine stable hartshorn.  Oh! the
reader shall have yet more of the stable, and of that old ostler, for
which he or she will doubtless exclaim, “Much obliged!”—and, lest I
should forget to perform my promise, the reader shall have it now.

I shall never forget an harangue from the mouth of the old man, which I
listened to one warm evening as he and I sat on the threshold of the
stable, after having attended to some of the wants of a batch of
coach-horses.  It related to the manner in which a gentleman should take
care of his horse and self, whilst engaged in a journey on horseback, and
was addressed to myself, on the supposition of my one day coming to an
estate, and of course becoming a gentleman.

“When you are a gentleman,” said he, “should you ever wish to take a
journey on a horse of your own, and you could not have a much better than
the one you have here eating its fill in the box yonder—I wonder,
by-the-bye, how you ever came by it—you can’t do better than follow the
advice I am about to give you, both with respect to your animal and
yourself.  Before you start, merely give your horse a couple of handfuls
of corn and a little water, somewhat under a quart, and if you drink a
pint of water yourself out of the pail, you will feel all the better
during the whole day; then you may walk and trot your animal for about
ten miles, till you come to some nice inn, where you may get down and see
your horse led into a nice stall, telling the ostler not to feed him till
you come.  If the ostler happens to be a dog-fancier, and has an English
terrier dog like that of mine there, say what a nice dog it is, and
praise its black and tawn; and if he does not happen to be a dog-fancier,
ask him how he’s getting on, and whether he ever knew worse times; that
kind of thing will please the ostler, and he will let you do just what
you please with your own horse, and when your back is turned, he’ll say
to his comrades what a nice gentleman you are, and how he thinks he has
seen you before; then go and sit down to breakfast, and, before you have
finished breakfast, get up and go and give your horse a feed of corn;
chat with the ostler two or three minutes, till your horse has taken the
shine out of his corn, which will prevent the ostler taking any of it
away when your back is turned, for such things are sometimes done—not
that I ever did such a thing myself when I was at the inn at Hounslow.
Oh, dear me, no!  Then go and finish your breakfast, and when you have
finished your breakfast and called for the newspaper, go and water your
horse, letting him have one pailful, then give him another feed of corn,
and enter into discourse with the ostler about bull-baiting, the prime
minister, and the like; and when your horse has once more taken the shine
out of his corn, go back to your room and your newspaper, and I hope for
your sake it may be the _Globe_, for that’s the best paper going, then
pull the bell-rope and order in your bill, which you will pay without
counting it up, supposing you to be a gentleman.  Give the waiter
sixpence, and order out your horse, and when your horse is out, pay for
the corn, and give the ostler a shilling, then mount your horse and walk
him gently for five miles; and whilst you are walking him in this manner,
it may be as well to tell you to take care that you do not let him down
and smash his knees, more especially if the road be a particularly good
one, for it is not at a desperate hiverman pace, and over very bad roads,
that a horse tumbles and smashes his knees, but on your particularly nice
road, when the horse is going gently and lazily, and is half asleep, like
the gemman on his back; well, at the end of the five miles, when the
horse has digested his food, and is all right, you may begin to push your
horse on, trotting him a mile at a heat, and then walking him a quarter
of a one, that his wind may be not distressed; and you may go on in that
way for thirty miles, never galloping, of course, for none but fools or
hivermen ever gallop horses on roads; and at the end of that distance you
may stop at some other nice inn to dinner.  I say, when your horse is led
into the stable, after that same thirty miles’ trotting and walking,
don’t let the saddle be whisked off at once, for if you do your horse
will have such a sore back as will frighten you, but let your saddle
remain on your horse’s back, with the girths loosened, till after his
next feed of corn, and be sure that he has no corn, much less water, till
after a long hour and more; after he is fed he may be watered to the tune
of half a pail, and then the ostler can give him a regular rub down; you
may then sit down to dinner, and when you have dined get up and see to
your horse as you did after breakfast, in fact, you must do much after
the same fashion you did at t’other inn; see to your horse, and by no
means disoblige the ostler.  So when you have seen to your horse a second
time, you will sit down to your bottle of wine—supposing you to be a
gentleman—and after you have finished it, and your argument about the
corn-laws, with any commercial gentleman who happens to be in the room,
you may mount your horse again, not forgetting to do the proper thing to
the waiter and ostler; you may mount your horse again and ride him, as
you did before, for about five and twenty miles, at the end of which you
may put up for the night after a very fair day’s journey, for no
gentleman, supposing he weighs sixteen stone, as I suppose you will by
the time you become a gentleman, ought to ride a horse more than
sixty-five miles in one day, provided he has any regard for his horse’s
back, or his own either.  See to your horse at night, and have him well
rubbed down.  The next day you may ride your horse forty miles, just as
you please, but never foolishly, and those forty miles will bring you to
your journey’s end, unless your journey be a plaguy long one, and if so,
never ride your horse more than five and thirty miles a day, always,
however, seeing him well fed, and taking more care of him than yourself;
which is but right and reasonable, seeing as how the horse is the best
animal of the two.”

“When you are a gentleman,” said he, after a pause, “the first thing you
must think about is to provide yourself with a good horse for your own
particular riding; you will perhaps keep a coach and pair, but they will
be less your own than your lady’s, should you have one, and your young
gentry, should you have any; or, if you have neither, for madam, your
housekeeper, and the upper female servants; so you need trouble your head
less about them, though, of course, you would not like to pay away your
money for screws; but be sure you get a good horse for your own riding;
and that you may have a good chance of having a good one, buy one that’s
young and has plenty of belly—a little more than the one has which you
now have, though you are not yet a gentleman; you will, of course, look
to his head, his withers, legs and other points, but never buy a horse at
any price that has not plenty of belly; no horse that has not belly is
ever a good feeder, and a horse that a’n’t a good feeder, can’t be a good
horse; never buy a horse that is drawn up in the belly behind; a horse of
that description can’t feed, and can never carry sixteen stone.

“So when you have got such a horse be proud of it—as I daresay you are of
the one you have now—and wherever you go swear there a’n’t another to
match it in the country, and if anybody gives you the lie, take him by
the nose and tweak it off, just as you would do if anybody were to speak
ill of your lady, or, for want of her, of your housekeeper.  Take care of
your horse, as you would of the apple of your eye—I am sure I would if I
were a gentleman, which I don’t ever expect to be, and hardly wish,
seeing as how I am sixty-nine, and am rather too old to ride—yes, cherish
and take care of your horse as perhaps the best friend you have in the
world; for, after all, who will carry you through thick and thin as your
horse will? not your gentlemen friends, I warrant, nor your housekeeper,
nor your upper servants, male or female; perhaps your lady would, that
is, if she is a whopper, and one of the right sort; the others would be
more likely to take up mud and pelt you with it, provided they saw you in
trouble, than to help you.  So take care of your horse, and feed him
every day with your own hands; give him three-quarters of a peck of corn
each day, mixed up with a little hay-chaff, and allow him besides one
hundredweight of hay in the course of a week; some say that the hay
should be hardland hay, because it is wholesomest, but I say, let it be
clover hay, because the horse likes it best; give him through summer and
winter, once a week, a pailful of bran mash, cold in summer and in winter
hot; ride him gently about the neighbourhood every day, by which means
you will give exercise to yourself and horse, and, moreover, have the
satisfaction of exhibiting yourself and your horse to advantage, and
hearing, perhaps, the men say what a fine horse, and the ladies saying
what a fine man: never let your groom mount your horse, as it is ten to
one, if you do, your groom will be wishing to show off before company,
and will fling your horse down.  I was groom to a gemman before I went to
the inn at Hounslow, and flung him a horse down worth ninety guineas, by
endeavouring to show off before some ladies that I met on the road.  Turn
your horse out to grass throughout May and the first part of June, for
then the grass is sweetest, and the flies don’t sting so bad as they do
later in summer; afterwards merely turn him out occasionally in the swale
of the morn and the evening; after September the grass is good for
little, lash and sour at best; every horse should go out to grass, if not
his blood becomes full of greasy humours, and his wind is apt to become
affected, but he ought to be kept as much as possible from the heat and
flies, always got up at night, and never turned out late in the
year—Lord! if I had always such a nice attentive person to listen to me
as you are, I could go on talking about ’orses to the end of time.”




CHAPTER XXVI.


I LIVED on very good terms, not only with the master and the old ostler,
but with all the domestics and hangers on at the inn, waiters,
chambermaids, cooks and scullions, not forgetting the “boots,” of which
there were three.  As for the postillions, I was sworn brother with them
all, and some of them went so far as to swear that I was the best fellow
in the world; for which high opinion entertained by them of me, I believe
I was principally indebted to the good account their comrade gave of me,
whom I had so hospitably received in the dingle.  I repeat that I lived
on good terms with all the people connected with the inn, and was noticed
and spoken kindly to by some of the guests—especially by that class
termed commercial travellers—all of whom were great friends and
patronisers of the landlord, and were the principal promoters of the
dinner, and subscribers to the gift of plate, which I have already spoken
of, the whole fraternity striking me as the jolliest set of fellows
imaginable, the best customers to an inn, and the most liberal to
servants; there was one description of persons, however, frequenting the
inn, which I did not like at all, and which I did not get on well with,
and these people were the stage-coachmen.

The stage-coachmen of England, at the time of which I am speaking,
considered themselves mighty fine gentry, nay, I verily believe the most
important personages of the realm, and their entertaining this high
opinion of themselves can scarcely be wondered at; they were low fellows,
but masters at driving; driving was in fashion, and sprigs of nobility
used to dress as coachmen and imitate the slang and behaviour of
coachmen, from whom occasionally they would take lessons in driving as
they sat beside them on the box, which post of honour any sprig of
nobility who happened to take a place on a coach claimed as his
unquestionable right; and then these sprigs would smoke cigars and drink
sherry with the coachmen in bar-rooms, and on the road; and, when bidding
them farewell, would give them a guinea or a half-guinea, and shake them
by the hand, so that these fellows, being low fellows, very naturally
thought no small liquor of themselves, but would talk familiarly of their
friends lords so and so, the honourable misters so and so, and Sir Harry
and Sir Charles, and be wonderfully saucy to any one who was not a lord,
or something of the kind; and this high opinion of themselves received
daily augmentation from the servile homage paid them by the generality of
the untitled male passengers, especially those on the fore part of the
coach, who used to contend for the honour of sitting on the box with the
coachman when no sprig was nigh to put in his claim.  Oh! what servile
homage these craven creatures did pay these same coach fellows, more
especially after witnessing this or t’other act of brutality practised
upon the weak and unoffending—upon some poor friendless woman travelling
with but little money, and perhaps a brace of hungry children with her,
or upon some thin and half-starved man travelling on the hind part of the
coach from London to Liverpool with only eighteen pence in his pocket
after his fare was paid, to defray his expenses on the road; for as the
insolence of these knights was vast, so was their rapacity enormous; they
had been so long accustomed to have crowns and half-crowns rained upon
them by their admirers and flatterers, that they would look at a
shilling, for which many an honest labourer was happy to toil for ten
hours under a broiling sun, with the utmost contempt; would blow upon it
derisively, or fillip it into the air before they pocketed it; but when
nothing was given them, as would occasionally happen—for how could they
receive from those who had nothing? and nobody was bound to give them
anything, as they had certain wages from their employers—then what a
scene would ensue!  Truly the brutality and rapacious insolence of
English coachmen had reached a climax; it was time that these fellows
should be disenchanted, and the time—thank Heaven!—was not far distant.
Let the craven dastards who used to curry favour with them, and applaud
their brutality, lament their loss now that they and their vehicles have
disappeared from the roads; I, who have ever been an enemy to insolence,
cruelty and tyranny, loathe their memory, and, what is more, am not
afraid to say so, well aware of the storm of vituperation, partly learnt
from them, which I may expect from those who used to fall down and
worship them.

Amongst the coachmen who frequented the inn was one who was called “the
bang-up coachman”.  He drove to our inn, in the fore part of every day,
one of what were called the fast coaches, and afterwards took back the
corresponding vehicle.  He stayed at our house about twenty minutes,
during which time the passengers of the coach which he was to return with
dined; those at least who were inclined for dinner, and could pay for it.
He derived his sobriquet of “the bang-up coachman” partly from his being
dressed in the extremity of coach dandyism, and partly from the peculiar
insolence of his manner, and the unmerciful fashion in which he was in
the habit of lashing on the poor horses committed to his charge.  He was
a large, tall fellow, of about thirty, with a face which, had it not been
bloated by excess, and insolence and cruelty stamped most visibly upon
it, might have been called good-looking.  His insolence indeed was so
great, that he was hated by all the minor fry connected with coaches
along the road upon which he drove, especially the ostlers, whom he was
continually abusing or finding fault with.  Many was the hearty curse
which he received when his back was turned; but the generality of people
were much afraid of him, for he was a swinging, strong fellow, and had
the reputation of being a fighter, and in one or two instances had beaten
in a barbarous manner individuals who had quarrelled with him.

I was nearly having a fracas with this worthy.  One day, after he had
been drinking sherry with a sprig, he swaggered into the yard where I
happened to be standing; just then a waiter came by carrying upon a tray
part of a splendid Cheshire cheese, with a knife, plate and napkin.
Stopping the waiter, the coachman cut with the knife a tolerably large
lump out of the very middle of the cheese, stuck it on the end of the
knife, and putting it to his mouth nibbled a slight piece off it, and
then, tossing the rest away with disdain, flung the knife down upon the
tray, motioning the waiter to proceed; “I wish,” said I, “you may not
want before you die what you have just flung away,” whereupon the fellow
turned furiously towards me; just then, however, his coach being standing
at the door, there was a cry for coachman, so that he was forced to
depart, contenting himself for the present with shaking his fist at me,
and threatening to serve me out on the first opportunity; before,
however, the opportunity occurred he himself got served out in a most
unexpected manner.

The day after this incident he drove his coach to the inn, and after
having dismounted and received the contributions of the generality of the
passengers, he strutted up, with a cigar in his mouth, to an individual
who had come with him, and who had just asked me a question with respect
to the direction of a village about three miles off, to which he was
going.  “Remember the coachman,” said the knight of the box to this
individual, who was a thin person of about sixty, with a white hat,
rather shabby black coat, and buff- trousers, and who held an
umbrella, and a small bundle in his hand.  “If you expect me to give you
anything,” said he to the coachman, “you are mistaken; I will give you
nothing.  You have been very insolent to me as I rode behind you on the
coach, and have encouraged two or three trumpery fellows, who rode along
with you, to cut scurvy jokes at my expense, and now you come to me for
money; I am not so poor but I could have given you a shilling had you
been civil; as it is, I will give you nothing.”  “Oh! you won’t, won’t
you?” said the coachman; “dear me!  I hope I shan’t starve because you
won’t give me anything—a shilling! why, I could afford to give you twenty
if I thought fit, you pauper! civil to you, indeed! things are come to a
fine pass if I need be civil to you!  Do you know who you are speaking
to? why, the best lords in the country are proud to speak to me.  Why, it
was only the other day that the Marquis of — said to me —” and then he
went on to say what the Marquis said to him; after which, flinging down
his cigar, he strutted up the road, swearing to himself about paupers.

“You say it is three miles to —,” said the individual to me; “I think I
shall light my pipe, and smoke it as I go along.”  Thereupon he took out
from a side-pocket a tobacco-box and short meerschaum pipe, and
implements for striking a light, filled his pipe, lighted it, and
commenced smoking.  Presently the coachman drew near.  I saw at once
there was mischief in his eye; the man smoking was standing with his back
towards him, and he came so nigh to him, seemingly purposely, that as he
passed a puff of smoke came of necessity against his face.  “What do you
mean by smoking in my face?” said he, striking the pipe of the elderly
individual out of his mouth.  The other, without manifesting much
surprise, said: “I thank you; if you will wait a minute, I will give you
a receipt for that favour”; then gathering up his pipe, and taking off
his coat and hat, he laid them on a stepping-block which stood near, and
rubbing his hands together, he advanced towards the coachman in an
attitude of offence, holding his hands crossed very near to his face.
The coachman, who probably expected anything but such a movement from a
person of the age and appearance of the individual whom he had insulted,
stood for a moment motionless with surprise; but, recollecting himself,
he pointed at him derisively with his finger; the next moment, however,
the other was close upon him, had struck aside the extended hand with his
left fist, and given him a severe blow on the nose with his right, which
he immediately followed by a left-hand blow in the eye; then drawing his
body slightly backward, with the velocity of lightning he struck the
coachman full in the mouth, and the last blow was the severest of all,
for it cut the coachman’s lips nearly through; blows so quickly and
sharply dealt I had never seen.  The coachman reeled like a fir-tree in a
gale, and seemed nearly unsensed.  “Ho! what’s this? a fight! a fight!”
sounded from a dozen voices, and people came running from all directions
to see what was going on.  The coachman coming somewhat to himself,
disencumbered himself of his coat and hat; and, encouraged by two or
three of his brothers of the whip, showed some symptoms of fighting,
endeavouring to close with his foe, but the attempt was vain, his foe was
not to be closed with; he did not shift or dodge about, but warded off
the blows of his opponent with the greatest _sang-froid_, always using
the guard which I have already described, and putting in, in return,
short, chopping blows with the swiftness of lightning.  In a very few
minutes the countenance of the coachman was literally cut to pieces, and
several of his teeth were dislodged; at length he gave in; stung with
mortification, however, he repented, and asked for another round; it was
granted, to his own complete demolition.  The coachman did not drive his
coach back that day, he did not appear on the box again for a week; but
he never held up his head afterwards.  Before I quitted the inn, he had
disappeared from the road, going no one knew where.

The coachman, as I have said before, was very much disliked upon the
road, but there was an _esprit de corps_ amongst the coachmen, and those
who stood by did not like to see their brother chastised in such
tremendous fashion.  “I never saw such a fight before,” said one.
“Fight! why, I don’t call it a fight at all; this chap here ha’n’t got a
scratch, whereas Tom is cut to pieces; it is all along of that guard of
his; if Tom could have got within his guard he would have soon served the
old chap out.”  “So he would,” said another; “it was all owing to that
guard.  However, I think I see into it, and if I had not to drive this
afternoon, I would have a turn with the old fellow and soon serve him
out.”  “I will fight him now for a guinea,” said the other coachman, half
taking off his coat; observing, however, that the elderly individual made
a motion towards him, he hitched it upon his shoulder again, and added,
“that is, if he had not been fighting already, but as it is, I am above
taking an advantage, especially of such a poor old creature as that.”
And when he had said this, he looked around him, and there was a feeble
titter of approbation from two or three of the craven crew, who were in
the habit of currying favour with the coachmen.  The elderly individual
looked for a moment at these last, and then said: “To such fellows as you
I have nothing to say”, then turning to the coachmen, “and as for you,”
he said, “ye cowardly bullies, I have but one word, which is, that your
reign upon the roads is nearly over, and that a time is coming when ye
will no longer be wanted or employed in your present capacity, when ye
will either have to drive dung-carts, assist as ostlers at village
ale-houses, or rot in the workhouse.”  Then putting on his coat and hat,
and taking up his bundle, not forgetting his meerschaum, and the rest of
his smoking apparatus, he departed on his way.  Filled with curiosity, I
followed him.

“I am quite astonished that you should be able to use your hands in the
way you have done,” said I, as I walked with this individual in the
direction in which he was bound.

“I will tell you how I became able to do so,” said the elderly
individual, proceeding to fill and light his pipe as he walked along.
“My father was a journeyman engraver, who lived in a very riotous
neighbourhood in the outskirts of London.  Wishing to give me something
of an education, he sent me to a day-school, two or three streets distant
from where we lived, and there, being rather a puny boy, I suffered much
persecution from my schoolfellows, who were a very blackguard set.  One
day, as I was running home, with one of my tormentors pursuing me, old
Sergeant Broughton, the retired fighting-man, seized me by the arm—”

“Dear me,” said I, “has it ever been your luck to be acquainted with
Sergeant Broughton?”

“You may well call it luck,” said the elder individual; “but for him I
should never have been able to make my way through the world.  He lived
only four doors from our house; so, as I was running along the street,
with my tyrant behind me, Sergeant Broughton seized me by the arm.
‘Stop, my boy,’ said he, ‘I have frequently seen that scamp ill-treating
you; now I will teach you how to send him home with a bloody nose; down
with your bag of books; and now, my game chick,’ whispered he to me,
placing himself between me and my adversary, so that he could not observe
his motions, ‘clench your fist in this manner, and hold your arms in
this, and when he strikes at you, move them as I now show you, and he
can’t hurt you; now, don’t be afraid, but go at him’.  I confess that I
was somewhat afraid, but I considered myself in some degree under the
protection of the famous Sergeant, and, clenching my fist, I went at my
foe, using the guard which my ally recommended.  The result corresponded
to a certain degree with the predictions of the Sergeant; I gave my foe a
bloody nose and a black eye, though, notwithstanding my recent lesson in
the art of self-defence, he contrived to give me two or three clumsy
blows.  From that moment I was the especial favourite of the Sergeant,
who gave me further lessons, so that in a little time I became a very
fair boxer, beating everybody of my own size who attacked me.  The old
gentleman, however, made me promise never to be quarrelsome, nor to turn
his instructions to account, except in self-defence.  I have always borne
in mind my promise, and have made it a point of conscience never to fight
unless absolutely compelled.  Folks may rail against boxing if they
please, but being able to box may sometimes stand a quiet man in good
stead.  How should I have fared to-day, but for the instructions of
Sergeant Broughton?  But for them, the brutal ruffian who insulted me
must have passed unpunished.  He will not soon forget the lesson which I
have just given him—the only lesson he could understand.  What would have
been the use of reasoning with a fellow of that description?  Brave old
Broughton!  I owe him much.”

“And your manner of fighting,” said I, “was the manner employed by
Sergeant Broughton?”

“Yes,” said my new acquaintance; “it was the manner in which he beat
every one who attempted to contend with him, till, in an evil hour, he
entered the ring with Slack, without any training or preparation, and by
a chance blow lost the battle to a man who had been beaten with ease by
those who, in the hands of Broughton, appeared like so many children.  It
was the way of fighting of him who first taught Englishmen to box
scientifically, who was the head and father of the fighters of what is
now called the old school, the last of which were Johnson and Big Ben.”

“A wonderful man, that Big Ben,” said I.

“He was so,” said the elderly individual; “but had it not been for
Broughton, I question whether Ben would have ever been the fighter he
was.  Oh! there was no one like old Broughton; but for him I should at
the present moment be sneaking along the road, pursued by the hissings
and hootings of the dirty flatterers of that blackguard coachman.”

“What did you mean,” said I, “by those words of yours, that the coachmen
would speedily disappear from the roads?”

“I meant,” said he, “that a new method of travelling is about to be
established, which will supersede the old.  I am a poor engraver, as my
father was before me; but engraving is an intellectual trade, and by
following it I have been brought in contact with some of the cleverest
men in England.  It has even made me acquainted with the projector of the
scheme, which he has told me many of the wisest heads of England have
been dreaming of during a period of six hundred years, and which it seems
was alluded to by a certain Brazen Head in the story-book of Friar Bacon,
who is generally supposed to have been a wizard, but in reality was a
great philosopher.  Young man, in less than twenty years, by which time I
shall be dead and gone, England will be surrounded with roads of metal,
on which armies may travel with mighty velocity, and of which the walls
of brass and iron by which the friar proposed to defend his native land
are types.”  He then, shaking me by the hand, proceeded on his way,
whilst I returned to the inn.




CHAPTER XXVII.


A FEW days after the circumstance which I have last commemorated, it
chanced that, as I was standing at the door of the inn, one of the
numerous stage-coaches which were in the habit of stopping there, drove
up, and several passengers got down.  I had assisted a woman with a
couple of children to dismount, and had just delivered to her a band-box,
which appeared to be her only property, which she had begged me to fetch
down from the roof, when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and heard a
voice exclaim: “Is it possible, old fellow, that I find you in this
place?”  I turned round, and, wrapped in a large blue cloak, I beheld my
good friend Francis Ardry.  I shook him most warmly by the hand, and
said: “If you are surprised to see me, I am no less so to see you; where
are you bound to?”

“I am bound for L—; at any rate, I am booked for that sea-port,” said my
friend in reply.

“I am sorry for it,” said I, “for in that case we shall have to part in a
quarter of an hour, the coach by which you came stopping no longer.”

“And whither are you bound?” demanded my friend.

“I am stopping at present in this house, quite undetermined as to what to
do.”

“Then come along with me,” said Francis Ardry.

“That I can scarcely do,” said I; “I have a horse in the stall which I
cannot afford to ruin by racing to L— by the side of your coach.”

My friend mused for a moment: “I have no particular business at L—,” said
he; “I was merely going thither to pass a day or two, till an affair, in
which I am deeply interested, at C— shall come off.  I think I shall stay
with you for four-and-twenty hours at least; I have been rather
melancholy of late, and cannot afford to part with a friend like you at
the present moment; it is an unexpected piece of good fortune to have met
you; and I have not been very fortunate of late,” he added, sighing.

“Well,” said I, “I am glad to see you once more, whether fortunate or
not; where is your baggage?”

“Yon trunk is mine,” said Francis, pointing to a trunk of black Russian
leather upon the coach.

“We will soon have it down,” said I; and at a word which I gave to one of
the hangers-on of the inn, the trunk was taken from the top of the coach.
“Now,” said I to Francis Ardry, “follow me, I am a person of some
authority in this house;” thereupon I led Francis Ardry into the house,
and a word which I said to a waiter forthwith installed Francis Ardry in
a comfortable private sitting-room, and his trunk in the very best
sleeping-room of our extensive establishment.

It was now about one o’clock: Francis Ardry ordered dinner for two, to be
ready at four, and a pint of sherry to be brought forthwith, which I
requested my friend the waiter might be the very best, and which in
effect turned out as I requested; we sat down, and when we had drunk to
each other’s health, Frank requested me to make known to him how I had
contrived to free myself from my embarrassments in London, what I had
been about since I quitted that city, and the present posture of my
affairs.

I related to Francis Ardry how I had composed the _Life of Joseph Sell_,
and how the sale of it to the bookseller had enabled me to quit London
with money in my pocket, which had supported me during a long course of
ramble in the country, into the particulars of which I, however, did not
enter with any considerable degree of fulness.  I summed up my account by
saying that “I was at present a kind of overlooker in the stables of the
inn, had still some pounds in my purse, and, moreover, a capital horse in
the stall.”

“No very agreeable posture of affairs,” said Francis Ardry, looking
rather seriously at me.

“I make no complaints,” said I; “my prospects are not very bright, it is
true, but sometimes I have visions both waking and sleeping, which,
though always strange, are invariably agreeable.  Last night, in my
chamber near the hayloft, I dreamt that I had passed over an almost
interminable wilderness—an enormous wall rose before me, the wall,
methought, was the great wall of China: strange figures appeared to be
beckoning to me from the top of the wall; such visions are not exactly to
be sneered at.  Not that such phantasmagoria,” said I, raising my voice,
“are to be compared for a moment with such desirable things as fashion,
fine clothes, cheques from uncles, parliamentary interest, the love of
splendid females.  Ah! woman’s love,” said I, and sighed.

“What’s the matter with the fellow?” said Francis Ardry.

“There is nothing like it,” said I.

“Like what?”

“Love, divine love,” said I.

“Confound love,” said Francis Ardry, “I hate the very name; I have made
myself a pretty fool by it, but trust me for ever being caught at such
folly again.  In an evil hour I abandoned my former pursuits and
amusements for it; in one morning spent at Joey’s there was more real
pleasure than in—”

“Surely,” said I, “you are not hankering after dog-fighting again, a
sport which none but the gross and unrefined care anything for?  No,
one’s thoughts should be occupied by something higher and more rational
than dog-fighting; and what better than love—divine love?  Oh, there’s
nothing like it!”

“Pray, don’t talk nonsense,” said Francis Ardry.

“Nonsense!” said I; “why I was repeating, to the best of my recollection,
what I heard you say on a former occasion.”

“If ever I talked such stuff,” said Francis Ardry, “I was a fool; and
indeed I cannot deny that I have been one: no, there’s no denying that I
have been a fool.  What do you think? that false Annette has cruelly
abandoned me.”

“Well,” said I, “perhaps you have yourself to thank for her having done
so; did you never treat her with coldness, and repay her marks of
affectionate interest with strange fits of eccentric humour?”

“Lord! how little you know of women,” said Francis Ardry; “had I done as
you suppose, I should probably have possessed her at the present moment.
I treated her in a manner diametrically opposite to that.  I loaded her
with presents, was always most assiduous to her, always at her feet, as I
may say, yet she nevertheless abandoned me—and for whom?  I am almost
ashamed to say—for a fiddler.”

I took a glass of wine, Francis Ardry followed my example, and then
proceeded to detail to me the treatment which he had experienced from
Annette, and from what he said, it appeared that her conduct to him had
been in the highest degree reprehensible; notwithstanding he had indulged
her in everything, she was never civil to him, but loaded him continually
with taunts and insults, and had finally, on his being unable to supply
her with a sum of money which she had demanded, decamped from the
lodgings which he had taken for her, carrying with her all the presents
which at various times he had bestowed upon her, and had put herself
under the protection of a gentleman who played the bassoon at the Italian
Opera, at which place it appeared that her sister had lately been engaged
as a danseuse.  My friend informed me that at first he had experienced
great agony at the ingratitude of Annette, but at last had made up his
mind to forget her, and, in order more effectually to do so, had left
London with the intention of witnessing a fight, which was shortly coming
off at a town in these parts, between some dogs and a lion; which combat,
he informed me, had for some time past been looked forward to with
intense eagerness by the gentlemen of the sporting world.

I commended him for his resolution, at the same time advising him not to
give up his mind entirely to dog-fighting, as he had formerly done, but,
when the present combat should be over, to return to his rhetorical
studies, and above all to marry some rich and handsome lady on the first
opportunity, as, with his person and expectations, he had only to sue for
the hand of the daughter of a marquis to be successful, telling him, with
a sigh, that all women were not Annettes, and that, upon the whole, there
was nothing like them.  To which advice he answered, that he intended to
return to rhetoric as soon as the lion fight should be over, but that he
never intended to marry, having had enough of women; adding that he was
glad he had no sister, as, with the feelings which he entertained with
respect to her sex, he should be unable to treat her with common
affection, and concluded by repeating a proverb which he had learnt from
an Arab whom he had met at Venice, to the effect, that, “one who has been
stung by a snake, shivers at the sight of a string”.

After a little more conversation, we strolled to the stable, where my
horse was standing; my friend, who was a connoisseur in horse-flesh,
surveyed the animal with attention, and after inquiring where and how I
had obtained him, asked what I intended to do with him; on my telling him
that I was undetermined, and that I was afraid the horse was likely to
prove a burden to me, he said: “It is a noble animal, and if you mind
what you are about, you may make a small fortune by him.  I do not want
such an animal myself, nor do I know any one who does; but a great
horse-fair will be held shortly at a place where, it is true, I have
never been, but of which I have heard a great deal from my acquaintances,
where it is said a first-rate horse is always sure to fetch its value;
that place is Horncastle, in Lincolnshire, you should take him thither.”

Francis Ardry and myself dined together, and after dinner partook of a
bottle of the best port which the inn afforded.  After a few glasses, we
had a great deal of conversation; I again brought the subject of marriage
and love, divine love, upon the carpet, but Francis almost immediately
begged me to drop it; and on my having the delicacy to comply, he
reverted to dog-fighting, on which he talked well and learnedly; amongst
other things, he said that it was a princely sport of great antiquity,
and quoted from Quintus Curtius to prove that the princes of India must
have been of the fancy, they having, according to that author, treated
Alexander to a fight between certain dogs and a lion.  Becoming,
notwithstanding my friend’s eloquence and learning, somewhat tired of the
subject, I began to talk about Alexander.  Francis Ardry said he was one
of the two great men whom the world has produced, the other being
Napoleon; I replied that I believed Tamerlane was a greater man than
either; but Francis Ardry knew nothing of Tamerlane, save what he had
gathered from the play of Timour the Tartar.  “No,” said he, “Alexander
and Napoleon are the great men of the world, their names are known
everywhere.  Alexander has been dead upwards of two thousand years, but
the very English bumpkins sometimes christen their boys by the name of
Alexander—can there be a greater evidence of his greatness?  As for
Napoleon, there are some parts of India in which his bust is worshipped.”
Wishing to make up a triumvirate, I mentioned the name of Wellington, to
which Francis Ardry merely said, “bah!” and resumed the subject of
dog-fighting.

Francis Ardry remained at the inn during that day and the next, and then
departed to the dog and lion fight; I never saw him afterwards, and
merely heard of him once after a lapse of some years, and what I then
heard was not exactly what I could have wished to hear.  He did not make
much of the advantages which he possessed—a pity, for how great were
those advantages—person, intellect, eloquence, connection, riches! yet,
with all these advantages, one thing highly needful seems to have been
wanting in Francis.  A desire, a craving, to perform something great and
good.  Oh! what a vast deal may be done with intellect, courage, riches,
accompanied by the desire of doing something great and good!  Why, a
person may carry the blessings of civilisation and religion to barbarous,
yet at the same time beautiful and romantic, lands; and what a triumph
there is for him who does so! what a crown of glory!  Of far greater
value than those surrounding the brows of your mere conquerors.  Yet who
has done so in these times?  Not many; not three, not two, something
seems to have been always wanting; there is, however, one instance, in
which the various requisites have been united, and the crown, the most
desirable in the world—at least which I consider to be the most
desirable—achieved, and only one, that of Brooke of Borneo.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


IT never rains but it pours.  I was destined to see at this inn more
acquaintances than one.  On the day of Francis Ardry’s departure, shortly
after he had taken leave of me, as I was standing in the corn-chamber, at
a kind of writing-table or desk, fastened to the wall, with a book before
me, in which I was making out an account of the corn and hay lately
received and distributed, my friend the postillion came running in out of
breath.  “Here they both are,” he gasped out; “pray do come and look at
them.”

“Whom do you mean?” said I.

“Why, that red-haired Jack Priest, and that idiotic parson, Platitude;
they have just been set down by one of the coaches, and want a
post-chaise to go across the country in; and what do you think?  I am to
have the driving of them.  I have no time to lose, for I must get myself
ready; so do come and look at them.”

I hastened into the yard of the inn; two or three of the helpers of our
establishment were employed in drawing forward a post-chaise out of the
chaise-house, which occupied one side of the yard, and which was spacious
enough to contain nearly twenty of these vehicles, though it was never
full, several of them being always out upon the roads, as the demand upon
us for post-chaises across the country was very great.  “There they are,”
said the postillion, softly, nodding toward two individuals, in one of
whom I recognised the man in black, and in the other Mr. Platitude;
“there they are; have a good look at them, while I go and get ready.”
The man in black and Mr. Platitude were walking up and down the yard; Mr.
Platitude was doing his best to make himself appear ridiculous, talking
very loudly in exceedingly bad Italian, evidently for the purpose of
attracting the notice of the bystanders, in which he succeeded, all the
stable-boys and hangers-on about the yard, attracted by his vociferation,
grinning at his ridiculous figure as he limped up and down.  The man in
black said little or nothing, but from the glances which he cast sideways
appeared to be thoroughly ashamed of his companion; the worthy couple
presently arrived close to where I was standing, and the man in black,
who was nearest to me, perceiving me, stood still as if hesitating, but
recovering himself in a moment, he moved on without taking any further
notice.  Mr. Platitude exclaimed as they passed, in broken lingo: “I hope
we shall find the holy doctors all assembled,” and as they returned, “I
make no doubt that they will all be rejoiced to see me”.  Not wishing to
be standing an idle gazer, I went to the chaise and assisted in attaching
the horses, which had now been brought out, to the pole.  The postillion
presently arrived, and finding all ready took the reins and mounted the
box, whilst I very politely opened the door for the two travellers; Mr.
Platitude got in first, and, without taking any notice of me, seated
himself on the farther side.  In got the man in black and seated himself
nearest to me.  “All is right,” said I, as I shut the door, whereupon the
postillion cracked his whip, and the chaise drove out of the yard.  Just
as I shut the door, however, and just as Mr. Platitude had recommenced
talking in jergo, at the top of his voice, the man in black turned his
face partly towards me, and gave me a wink with his left eye.

I did not see my friend the postillion till the next morning, when he
gave me an account of the adventures he had met with on his expedition.
It appeared that he had driven the man in black and the Reverend
Platitude across the country by roads and lanes which he had some
difficulty in threading.  At length, when he had reached a part of the
country where he had never been before, the man in black pointed out to
him a house near the corner of a wood, to which he informed him they were
bound.  The postillion said it was a strange-looking house, with a wall
round it, and, upon the whole, bore something of the look of a madhouse.
There was already a post-chaise at the gate, from which three individuals
had alighted—one of them the postillion said was a mean-looking
scoundrel, with a regular petty-larceny expression in his countenance.
He was dressed very much like the man in black, and the postillion said
that he could almost have taken his Bible oath that they were both of the
same profession.  The other two he said were parsons, he could swear
that, though he had never seen them before; there could be no mistake
about them.  Church of England parsons the postillion swore they were,
with their black coats, white cravats, and airs, in which clumsiness and
conceit were most funnily blended—Church of England parsons of the
Platitude description, who had been in Italy, and seen the Pope, and
kissed his toe, and picked up a little broken Italian, and come home
greater fools than they went forth.  It appeared that they were all
acquaintances of Mr. Platitude, for when the postillion had alighted and
let Mr. Platitude and his companion out of the chaise, Mr. Platitude
shook the whole three by the hand, conversed with his two brothers in a
little broken jergo, and addressed the petty-larceny looking individual
by the title of Reverend Doctor.  In the midst of these greetings,
however, the postillion said the man in black came up to him, and
proceeded to settle with him for the chaise; he had shaken hands with
nobody, and had merely nodded to the others; “and now,” said the
postillion, “he evidently wished to get rid of me, fearing, probably,
that I should see too much of the nonsense that was going on.  It was
whilst settling with me that he seemed to recognise me for the first
time, for he stared hard at me, and at last asked whether I had not been
in Italy; to which question, with a nod and a laugh, I replied that I
had.  I was then going to ask him about the health of the image of Holy
Mary, and to say that I hoped it had recovered from its horsewhipping;
but he interrupted me, paid me the money for the fare, and gave me a
crown for myself, saying he would not detain me any longer.  I say,
partner, I am a poor postillion, but when he gave me the crown I had a
good mind to fling it in his face.  I reflected, however, that it was not
mere gift-money, but coin which I had earned, and hardly too, so I put it
in my pocket, and I bethought me, moreover, that, knave as I knew him to
be, he had always treated me with civility; so I nodded to him, and he
said something which, perhaps, he meant for Latin, but which sounded very
much like ‘vails,’ and by which he doubtless alluded to the money which
he had given me.  He then went into the house with the rest, the coach
drove away which had brought the others, and I was about to get on the
box and follow; observing, however, two more chaises driving up, I
thought I would be in no hurry, so I just led my horses and chaise a
little out of the way, and pretending to be occupied about the harness, I
kept a tolerably sharp look-out at the new arrivals.  Well, partner, the
next vehicle that drove up was a gentleman’s carriage which I knew very
well, as well as those within it, who were a father and son, the father a
good kind of old gentleman, and a justice of the peace, therefore, not
very wise, as you may suppose; the son a puppy who has been abroad, where
he contrived to forget his own language, though only nine months absent,
and now rules the roast over his father and mother, whose only child he
is, and by whom he is thought wondrous clever.  So this foreigneering
chap brings his poor old father to this out-of-the-way house to meet
these Platitudes and petty-larceny villains, and perhaps would have
brought his mother too, only, simple thing, by good fortune she happens
to be laid up with the rheumatiz.  Well, the father and son, I beg
pardon, I mean the son and father, got down and went in, and then after
their carriage was gone, the chaise behind drove up, in which was a huge
fat fellow, weighing twenty stone at least, but with something of a
foreign look, and with him—who do you think?  Why, a rascally Unitarian
minister, that is, a fellow who had been such a minister, but who, some
years ago leaving his own people, who had bred him up and sent him to
their college at York, went over to the High Church, and is now, I
suppose, going over to some other Church, for he was talking as he got
down, wondrous fast in Latin, or what sounded something like Latin, to
the fat fellow, who appeared to take things wonderfully easy, and merely
grunted to the dog Latin which the scoundrel had learnt at the expense of
the poor Unitarians at York.  So they went into the house, and presently
arrived another chaise, but ere I could make any further observations,
the porter of the out-of-the-way house came up to me, asking what I was
stopping there for? bidding me go away, and not pry into other people’s
business.  ‘Pretty business,’ said I to him, ‘that is being transacted in
a place like this,’ and then I was going to say something uncivil, but he
went to attend to the new comers, and I took myself away on my own
business as he bade me, not, however, before observing that these two
last were a couple of blackcoats.”

The postillion then proceeded to relate how he made the best of his way
to a small public-house, about a mile off, where he had intended to bait,
and how he met on the way a landau and pair, belonging to a Scotch
coxcomb whom he had known in London, about whom he related some curious
particulars, and then continued: “Well, after I had passed him and his
turn-out, I drove straight to the public-house, where I baited my horses,
and where I found some of the chaises and drivers who had driven the
folks to the lunatic-looking mansion, and were now waiting to take them
up again.  Whilst my horses were eating their bait, I sat me down, as the
weather was warm, at a table outside, and smoked a pipe, and drank some
ale, in company with the coachman of the old gentleman who had gone to
the house with his son, and the coachman then told me that the house was
a <DW7> house, and that the present was a grand meeting of all the fools
and rascals in the country, who came to bow down to images, and to
concert schemes—pretty schemes no doubt—for overturning the religion of
the country, and that for his part he did not approve of being concerned
with such doings, and that he was going to give his master warning next
day.  So, as we were drinking and discoursing, up drove the chariot of
the Scotchman, and down got his valet and the driver, and whilst the
driver was seeing after the horses, the valet came and sat down at the
table where the gentleman’s coachman and I were drinking.  I knew the
fellow well, a Scotchman like his master, and just of the same kidney,
with white kid gloves, red hair frizzled, a patch of paint on his face,
and his hands covered with rings.  This very fellow, I must tell you, was
one of those most busy in endeavouring to get me turned out of the
servants’ club in Park Lane, because I happened to serve a literary man;
so he sat down, and in a kind of affected tone cried out: ‘Landlord,
bring me a glass of cold negus’.  The landlord, however, told him that
there was no negus, but that if he pleased, he could have a jug of as
good beer as any in the country.  ‘Confound the beer,’ said the valet,
‘do you think I am accustomed to such vulgar beverage?’  However, as he
found there was nothing better to be had, he let the man bring him some
beer, and when he had got it, soon showed that he could drink it easily
enough; so, when he had drunk two or three draughts, he turned his eyes
in a contemptuous manner, first on the coachman, and then on me; I saw
the scamp recollected me, for after staring at me and my dress for about
half a minute, he put on a broad grin, and flinging his head back, he
uttered a loud laugh.  Well, I did not like this, as you may well
believe, and taking the pipe out of my mouth, I asked him if he meant
anything personal, to which he answered, that he had said nothing to me,
and that he had a right to look where he pleased, and laugh when he
pleased.  Well, as to a certain extent he was right, as to looking and
laughing, and as I have occasionally looked at a fool and laughed, though
I was not the fool in this instance, I put my pipe into my mouth and said
no more.  This quiet and well-regulated behaviour of mine, however the
fellow interpreted into fear; so, after drinking a little more, he
suddenly started up, and striding once or twice before the table, he
asked me what I meant by that impertinent question of mine, saying that
he had a good mind to wring my nose for my presumption.  ‘You have?’ said
I, getting up, and laying down my pipe.  ‘Well, I’ll now give you an
opportunity.’  So I put myself in an attitude, and went up to him,
saying: ‘I have an old score to settle with you, you scamp; you wanted to
get me turned out of the club, didn’t you?’  And thereupon, remembering
that he had threatened to wring my nose, I gave him a snorter upon his
own.  I wish you could have seen the fellow when he felt the smart; so
far from trying to defend himself, he turned round, and with his hand to
his face, attempted to run away; but I was now in a regular passion, and
following him up, got before him, and was going to pummel away at him,
when he burst into tears, and begged me not to hurt him, saying that he
was sorry if he had offended me, and that, if I pleased, he would go down
on his knees, or do anything else I wanted.  Well, when I heard him talk
in this manner, I, of course, let him be; I could hardly help laughing at
the figure he cut; his face all blubbered with tears, and blood and
paint; but I did not laugh at the poor creature either, but went to the
table and took up my pipe, and smoked and drank as if nothing had
happened; and the fellow, after having been to the pump, came and sat
down, crying and trying to curry favour with me and the coachman;
presently, however, putting on a confidential look, he began to talk of
the Popish house, and of the doings there, and said he supposed as how we
were of the party, and that it was all right; and then he began to talk
of the Pope of Rome, and what a nice man he was, and what a fine thing it
was to be of his religion, especially if folks went over to him; and how
it advanced them in the world, and gave them consideration; and how his
master, who had been abroad and seen the Pope, and kissed his toe, was
going over to the Popish religion, and had persuaded him to consent to do
so, and to forsake his own, which I think the scoundrel called the
’Piscopal Church of Scotland, and how many others of that Church were
going over, thinking to better their condition in life by so doing, and
to be more thought on; and how many of the English Church were thinking
of going over too, and that he had no doubt that it would all end right
and comfortably.  Well, as he was going on in this way, the old coachman
began to spit, and getting up, flung all the beer that was in his jug
upon the ground, and going away, ordered another jug of beer, and sat
down at another table, saying that he would not drink in such company;
and I too got up, and flung what beer remained in my jug—there wasn’t
more than a drop—in the fellow’s face, saying, I would scorn to drink any
more in such company; and then I went to my horses, put them to, paid my
reckoning, and drove home.”

The postillion having related his story, to which I listened with all due
attention, mused for a moment, and then said: “I daresay you remember
how, some time since, when old Bill had been telling us how the
Government a long time ago, had done away with robbing on the highway, by
putting down the public-houses and places which the highwaymen
frequented, and by sending out a good mounted police to hunt them down, I
said that it was a shame that the present Government did not employ
somewhat the same means in order to stop the proceedings of Mumbo Jumbo
and his gang now-a-days in England.  Howsomever, since I have driven a
fare to a Popish rendezvous, and seen something of what is going on
there, I should conceive that the Government are justified in allowing
the gang the free exercise of their calling.  Anybody is welcome to stoop
and pick up nothing, or worse than nothing, and if Mumbo Jumbo’s people,
after their expeditions, return to their haunts with no better plunder in
the shape of converts than what I saw going into yonder place of call, I
should say they are welcome to what they get; for if that’s the kind of
rubbish they steal out of the Church of England, or any other Church, who
in his senses but would say a good riddance, and many thanks for your
trouble? at any rate, that is my opinion of the matter.”




CHAPTER XXIX.


IT was now that I had frequent deliberations with myself.  Should I
continue at the inn in my present position?  I was not very much
captivated with it; there was little poetry in keeping an account of the
corn, hay and straw which came in, and was given out, and I was fond of
poetry; moreover, there was no glory at all to be expected in doing so,
and I was fond of glory.  Should I give up that situation, and remaining
at the inn, become ostler under old Bill?  There was more poetry in
rubbing down horses than in keeping an account of straw, hay and corn;
there was also some prospect of glory attached to the situation of
ostler, for the grooms and stable-boys occasionally talked of an ostler,
a great way down the road, who had been presented by some sporting
people, not with a silver vase, as our governor had been, but with a
silver currycomb, in testimony of their admiration for his skill; but I
confess that the poetry of rubbing down had become, as all other poetry
becomes, rather prosy by frequent repetition, and with respect to the
chance of deriving glory from the employment, I entertained, in the event
of my determining to stay, very slight hope of ever attaining skill in
the ostler art sufficient to induce sporting people to bestow upon me a
silver currycomb.  I was not half so good an ostler as old Bill, who had
never been presented with a silver currycomb, and I never expected to
become so, therefore what chance had I?  It was true, there was a
prospect of some pecuniary emolument to be derived by remaining in either
situation.  It was very probable that, provided I continued to keep an
account of the hay and corn coming in and expended, the landlord would
consent to allow me a pound a week, which at the end of a dozen years,
provided I kept myself sober, would amount to a considerable sum.  I
might, on the retirement of old Bill, by taking his place, save up a
decent sum of money, provided, unlike him, I kept myself sober, and laid
by all the shillings and sixpences I got; but the prospect of laying up a
decent sum of money was not of sufficient importance to induce me to
continue either at my wooden desk, or in the inn-yard.  The reader will
remember what difficulty I had to make up my mind to become a merchant
under the Armenian’s auspices, even with the prospect of making two or
three hundred thousand pounds by following the Armenian way of doing
business, so it was not probable that I should feel disposed to be
book-keeper or ostler all my life with no other prospect than being able
to make a tidy sum of money.  If, indeed, besides the prospect of making
a tidy sum at the end of perhaps forty years’ ostlering, I had been
certain of being presented with a silver currycomb with my name engraved
upon it, which I might have left to my descendants, or, in default
thereof, to the parish church destined to contain my bones, with
directions that it might be soldered into the wall above the arch leading
from the body of the church into the chancel—I will not say with such a
certainty of immortality, combined with such a prospect of moderate
pecuniary advantage,—I might not have thought it worth my while to stay;
but I entertained no such certainty, and, taking everything into
consideration, I determined to mount my horse and leave the inn.

This horse had caused me for some time past no little perplexity; I had
frequently repented of having purchased him, more especially as the
purchase had been made with another person’s money, and had more than
once shown him to people who, I imagined, were likely to purchase him;
but, though they were profuse in his praise, as people generally are in
the praise of what they don’t intend to purchase, they never made me an
offer, and now that I had determined to mount on his back and ride away,
what was I to do with him in the sequel?  I could not maintain him long.
Suddenly I bethought me of Horncastle, which Francis Ardry had mentioned
as a place where the horse was likely to find a purchaser, and not having
determined upon any particular place to which to repair, I thought that I
could do no better than betake myself to Horncastle in the first
instance, and there endeavour to dispose of my horse.

On making inquiries with respect to the situation of Horncastle, and the
time when the fair would be held, I learned that the town was situated in
Lincolnshire, about a hundred and fifty miles from the inn at which I was
at present sojourning, and that the fair would be held nominally within
about a month, but that it was always requisite to be on the spot some
days before the nominal day of the fair, as all the best horses were
generally sold before that time, and the people who came to purchase gone
away with what they had bought.

The people of the inn were very sorry on being informed of my
determination to depart.  Old Bill told me that he had hoped as how I had
intended to settle down there, and to take his place as ostler when he
was fit for no more work, adding, that though I did not know much of the
business, yet he had no doubt but that I might improve.  My friend the
postillion was particularly sorry, and taking me with him to the tap-room
called for two pints of beer, to one of which he treated me; and whilst
we were drinking told me how particularly sorry he was at the thought of
my going, but that he hoped I should think better of the matter.  On my
telling him that I must go, he said that he trusted I should put off my
departure for three weeks, in order that I might be present at his
marriage, the banns of which were just about to be published.  He said
that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me dance a
minuet with his wife after the marriage dinner; but I told him it was
impossible that I should stay, my affairs imperatively calling me
elsewhere; and that with respect to my dancing a minuet, such a thing was
out of the question, as I had never learned to dance.  At which he said
that he was exceedingly sorry, and finding me determined to go, wished me
success in all my undertakings.

The master of the house, to whom, as in duty bound I communicated my
intention before I spoke of it to the servants, was, I make no doubt,
very sorry, though he did not exactly tell me so.  What he said was, that
he had never expected that I should remain long there, as such a
situation never appeared to him quite suitable to me, though I had been
very diligent, and had given him perfect satisfaction.  On his inquiring
when I intended to depart, I informed him next day, whereupon he begged
that I would defer my departure till the next day but one, and do him the
favour of dining with him on the morrow.  I informed him that I should be
only too happy.

On the following day at four o’clock I dined with the landlord, in
company with a commercial traveller.  The dinner was good, though plain,
consisting of boiled mackerel—rather a rarity in those parts at that
time—with fennel sauce, a prime baron of roast beef after the mackerel,
then a tart and noble Cheshire cheese; we had prime sherry at dinner, and
whilst eating the cheese prime porter, that of Barclay, the only good
porter in the world.  After the cloth was removed we had a bottle of very
good port; and whilst partaking of the port I had an argument with the
commercial traveller on the subject of the corn-laws.

The commercial traveller, having worsted me in the argument on the
subject of the corn-laws, got up in great glee, saying that he must order
his gig, as business must be attended to.  Before leaving the room,
however, he shook me patronisingly by the hand, and said something to the
master of the house, but in so low a tone that it escaped my ear.

No sooner had he departed than the master of the house told me that his
friend the traveller had just said that I was a confounded sensible young
fellow, and not at all opinionated, a sentiment in which he himself
perfectly agreed; then hemming once or twice, he said that as I was going
on a journey he hoped I was tolerably well provided with money, adding
that travelling was rather expensive, especially on horseback, the manner
in which he supposed, as I had a horse in the stable, I intended to
travel.  I told him that though I was not particularly well supplied with
money, I had sufficient for the expenses of my journey, at the end of
which I hoped to procure more.  He then hemmed again, and said that since
I had been at the inn I had rendered him a great deal of service in more
ways than one, and that he could not think of permitting me to depart
without making me some remuneration; then putting his hand into his
waistcoat pocket, he handed me a cheque for ten pounds, which he had
prepared beforehand, the value of which he said I could receive at the
next town, or that, if I wished it, any waiter in the house would cash it
for me.  I thanked him for his generosity in the best terms I could
select, but, handing him back the cheque, I told him that I could not
accept it, saying that, so far from his being my debtor, I believed
myself to be indebted to him, as not only myself but my horse had been
living at his house for several weeks.  He replied, that as for my board
at a house like his it amounted to nothing, and as for the little corn
and hay which the horse had consumed it was of no consequence, and that
he must insist upon my taking the cheque.  But I again declined, telling
him that doing so would be a violation of a rule which I had determined
to follow, and which nothing but the greatest necessity would ever compel
me to break through—never to incur obligations.  “But,” said he,
“receiving this money will not be incurring an obligation, it is your
due.”  “I do not think so,” said I; “I did not engage to serve you for
money, nor will I take any from you.”  “Perhaps you will take it as a
loan?” said he.  “No,” I replied, “I never borrow.”  “Well,” said the
landlord, smiling, “you are different from all others that I am
acquainted with.  I never yet knew any one else who scrupled to borrow
and receive obligations; why, there are two baronets in this
neighbourhood who have borrowed money of me, ay, and who have never
repaid what they borrowed; and there are a dozen squires who are under
considerable obligations to me, who I daresay will never return them.
Come, you need not be more scrupulous than your superiors—I mean in
station.”  “Every vessel must stand on its own bottom,” said I; “they
take pleasure in receiving obligations, I take pleasure in being
independent.  Perhaps they are wise, and I am a fool, I know not, but one
thing I am certain of, which is, that were I not independent I should be
very unhappy: I should have no visions then.”  “Have you any relations?”
said the landlord, looking at me compassionately; “excuse me, but I don’t
think you are exactly fit to take care of yourself.”  “There you are
mistaken,” said I, “I can take precious good care of myself; ay, and can
drive a precious hard bargain when I have occasion, but driving bargains
is a widely different thing from receiving gifts.  I am going to take my
horse to Horncastle, and when there I shall endeavour to obtain his full
value—ay to the last penny.”

“Horncastle!” said the landlord, “I have heard of that place; you mustn’t
be dreaming visions when you get there, or they’ll steal the horse from
under you.  Well,” said he, rising, “I shall not press you further on the
subject of the cheque.  I intend, however, to put you under an obligation
to me.”  He then rang the bell, and having ordered two fresh glasses to
be brought, he went out and presently returned with a small pint bottle,
which he uncorked with his own hand; then sitting down, he said: “The
wine that I bring here, is port of eighteen hundred and eleven, the year
of the comet, the best vintage on record; the wine which we have been
drinking,” he added, “is good, but not to be compared with this, which I
never sell, and which I am chary of.  When you have drunk some of it, I
think you will own that I have conferred an obligation upon you;” he then
filled the glasses, the wine which he poured out diffusing an aroma
through the room; then motioning me to drink, he raised his own glass to
his lips, saying: “Come, friend, I drink to your success at Horncastle”.




CHAPTER XXX.


I DEPARTED from the inn much in the same fashion as I had come to it,
mounted on a splendid horse indifferently well caparisoned, with the
small valise attached to my crupper, in which, besides the few things I
had brought with me, was a small book of roads with a map, which had been
presented to me by the landlord.  I must not forget to state that I did
not ride out of the yard, but that my horse was brought to me at the
front door by old Bill, who insisted upon doing so, and who refused a
five-shilling piece which I offered him; and it will be as well to let
the reader know that the landlord shook me by the hand as I mounted, and
that the people attached to the inn, male and female—my friend the
postillion at the head—assembled before the house to see me off, and gave
me three cheers as I rode away.  Perhaps no person ever departed from an
inn with more _éclat_ or better wishes; nobody looked at me askance,
except two stage-coachmen who were loitering about, one of whom said to
his companion: “I say, Jim! twig his portmanteau! a regular Newmarket
turn-out, by —!”

It was in the cool of the evening of a bright day—all the days of that
summer were bright—that I departed.  I felt at first rather melancholy at
finding myself again launched into the wide world, and leaving the
friends whom I had lately made behind me; but by occasionally trotting
the horse, and occasionally singing a song of Romanvile, I had dispelled
the feeling of melancholy by the time I had proceeded three miles down
the main road.  It was at the end of these three miles, just opposite a
milestone, that I struck into a cross road.  After riding about seven
miles, threading what are called, in postillion parlance, cross-country
roads, I reached another high road, tending to the east, along which I
proceeded for a mile or two, when coming to a small inn, about nine
o’clock, I halted and put up for the night.

Early on the following morning I proceeded on my journey, but fearing to
gall the horse, I no longer rode him, but led him by the bridle, until I
came to a town at a distance of about ten miles from the place where I
had passed the night.  Here I stayed during the heat of the day, more on
the horse’s account than my own, and towards evening resumed my journey,
leading the animal by the bridle as before; and in this manner I
proceeded for several days, travelling on an average from twenty to
twenty-five miles a day, always leading the animal, except perhaps now
and then of an evening, when, if I saw a good piece of road before me, I
would mount and put the horse into a trot, which the creature seemed to
enjoy as much as myself, showing his satisfaction by snorting and
neighing, whilst I gave utterance to my own exhilaration by shouts, or by
“the chi she is kaulo; she soves pré lakie dumo,” or by something else of
the same kind in Romanvile.

On the whole, I journeyed along very pleasantly, certainly quite as
pleasantly as I do at present, now that I am become a gentleman and weigh
sixteen stone, though some people would say that my present manner of
travelling is much the most preferable, riding as I now do, instead of
leading my horse; receiving the homage of ostlers instead of their
familiar nods; sitting down to dinner in the parlour of the best inn I
can find, instead of passing the brightest part of the day in the kitchen
of a village ale-house; carrying on my argument after dinner on the
subject of the corn-laws, with the best commercial gentlemen on the road,
instead of being glad, whilst sipping a pint of beer, to get into
conversation with blind trampers, or maimed Abraham sailors, regaling
themselves on half-pints at the said village hostelries.  Many people
will doubtless say that things have altered wonderfully with me for the
better, and they would say right, provided I possessed now what I then
carried about with me in my journeys—the spirit of youth.  Youth is the
only season for enjoyment, and the first twenty-five years of one’s life
are worth all the rest of the longest life of man, even though those
five-and-twenty be spent in penury and contempt, and the rest in the
possession of wealth, honours, respectability, ay, and many of them in
strength and health, such as will enable one to ride forty miles before
dinner, and over one’s pint of port—for the best gentleman in the land
should not drink a bottle—carry on one’s argument, with gravity and
decorum, with any commercial gentleman who, responsive to one’s
challenge, takes the part of humanity and common sense against
“protection” and the lord of the land.

Ah! there is nothing like youth—not that after-life is valueless.  Even
in extreme old age one may get on very well, provided we will but accept
of the bounties of God.  I met the other day an old man, who asked me to
drink.  “I am not thirsty,” said I, “and will not drink with you.”  “Yes,
you will,” said the old man, “for I am this day one hundred years old;
and you will never again have an opportunity of drinking the health of a
man on his hundredth birthday.”  So I broke my word, and drank.  “Yours
is a wonderful age,” said I.  “It is a long time to look back to the
beginning of it,” said the old man; “yet, upon the whole, I am not sorry
to have lived it all.”  “How have you passed your time?” said I.  “As
well as I could,” said the old man; “always enjoying a good thing when it
came honestly within my reach; not forgetting to praise God for putting
it there.”  “I suppose you were fond of a glass of good ale when you were
young?”  “Yes,” said the old man, “I was; and so, thank God, I am still.”
And he drank off a glass of ale.

On I went in my journey, traversing England from west to east, ascending
and descending hills, crossing rivers by bridge and ferry, and passing
over extensive plains.  What a beautiful country is England!  People run
abroad to see beautiful countries, and leave their own behind unknown,
unnoticed—their own the most beautiful!  And then, again, what a country
for adventures! especially to those who travel it on foot, or on
horseback.  People run abroad in quest of adventures, and traverse Spain
or Portugal on mule or on horseback; whereas there are ten times more
adventures to be met with in England than in Spain, Portugal, or stupid
Germany to boot.  Witness the number of adventures narrated in the
present book—a book entirely devoted to England.  Why, there is not a
chapter in the present book which is not full of adventures, with the
exception of the present one, and this is not yet terminated.

After traversing two or three counties, I reached the confines of
Lincolnshire.  During one particularly hot day I put up at a
public-house, to which, in the evening, came a party of harvesters to
make merry, who, finding me wandering about the house a stranger, invited
me to partake of their ale; so I drank with the harvesters, who sang me
songs about rural life, such as:—

    Sitting in the swale; and listening to the swindle of the flail, as
    it sounds dub-a-dub on the corn, from the neighbouring barn.

In requital for which I treated them with a song, not of Romanvile, but
the song of “Sivord and the horse Grayman”.  I remained with them till it
was dark, having, after sunset, entered into deep discourse with a
celebrated ratcatcher, who communicated to me the secrets of his trade,
saying, amongst other things: “When you see the rats pouring out of their
holes, and running up my hands and arms, it’s not after me they comes,
but after the oils I carries about me they comes”; and who subsequently
spoke in the most enthusiastic manner of his trade, saying that it was
the best trade in the world, and most diverting, and that it was likely
to last for ever; for whereas all other kinds of vermin were fast
disappearing from England, rats were every day becoming more abundant.  I
had quitted this good company, and having mounted my horse, was making my
way towards a town at about six miles distance, at a swinging trot, my
thoughts deeply engaged on what I had gathered from the ratcatcher, when
all on a sudden a light glared upon the horse’s face, who purled round in
great terror, and flung me out of the saddle, as from a sling, or with as
much violence as the horse Grayman, in the ballad, flings Sivord the
Snareswayne.  I fell upon the ground—felt a kind of crashing about my
neck—and forthwith became senseless.




CHAPTER XXXI.


HOW long I remained senseless I cannot say—for a considerable time, I
believe; at length, opening my eyes, I found myself lying on a bed in a
middle-sized chamber, lighted by a candle, which stood on a table.  An
elderly man stood near me, and a yet more elderly female was holding a
phial of very pungent salts to my olfactory organ.  I attempted to move,
but felt very stiff; my right arm appeared nearly paralysed, and there
was a strange dull sensation in my head.  “You had better remain still,
young man,” said the elderly individual, “the surgeon will be here
presently; I have sent a message for him to the neighbouring village.”
“Where am I?” said I, “and what has happened?”  “You are in my house,”
said the old man, “and you have been flung from a horse.  I am sorry to
say that I was the cause.  As I was driving home, the lights in my gig
frightened the animal.”  “Where is the horse?” said I.  “Below, in my
stable,” said the elderly individual.  “I saw you fall, but knowing that
on account of my age I could be of little use to you, I instantly hurried
home—the accident did not occur more than a furlong off—and procuring the
assistance of my lad, and two or three neighbouring cottagers, I returned
to the spot where you were lying senseless.  We raised you up, and
brought you here.  My lad then went in quest of the horse, who had run
away as we drew nigh.  When we saw him first, he was standing near you;
he caught him with some difficulty, and brought him home.  What are you
about?” said the old man, as I strove to get off the bed.  “I want to see
the horse,” said I.  “I entreat you to be still,” said the old man; “the
horse is safe, I assure you.”  “I am thinking about his knees,” said I.
“Instead of thinking about your horse’s knees,” said the old man, “be
thankful that you have not broke your own neck.”  “You do not talk
wisely,” said I; “when a man’s neck is broke, he is provided for; but
when his horse’s knees are broke, he is a lost jockey, that is, if he has
nothing but his horse to depend upon.  A pretty figure I should cut at
Horncastle, mounted on a horse blood-raw at the knees.”  “Oh, you are
going to Horncastle,” said the old man seriously, “then I can sympathise
with you in your anxiety about your horse, being a Lincolnshire man, and
the son of one who bred horses.  I will myself go down into the stable,
and examine into the condition of your horse, so pray remain quiet till I
return; it would certainly be a terrible thing to appear at Horncastle on
a broken-kneed horse.”

He left the room and returned in about ten minutes, followed by another
person.  “Your horse is safe,” said he, “and his knees are unblemished;
not a hair ruffled.  He is a fine animal, and will do credit to
Horncastle; but here is the surgeon come to examine into your own
condition.”  The surgeon was a man about thirty-five, thin, and rather
tall; his face was long and pale, and his hair, which was light, was
carefully combed back as much as possible from his forehead.  He was
dressed very neatly, and spoke in a very precise tone.  “Allow me to feel
your pulse, friend?” said he, taking me by the right wrist.  I uttered a
cry, for at the motion which he caused a thrill of agony darted through
my arm.  “I hope your arm is not broke, my friend,” said the surgeon,
“allow me to see; first of all, we must divest you of this cumbrous
frock.”

The frock was removed with some difficulty, and then the upper vestments
of my frame, with more difficulty still.  The surgeon felt my arm, moving
it up and down, causing me unspeakable pain.  “There is no fracture,”
said he at last, “but a contusion—a violent contusion.  I am told you
were going to Horncastle; I am afraid you will be hardly able to ride
your horse thither in time to dispose of him; however, we shall see; your
arm must be bandaged, friend, after which I shall bleed you, and
administer a composing draught.”

To be short, the surgeon did as he proposed, and when he had administered
the composing draught, he said: “Be of good cheer; I should not be
surprised if you are yet in time for Horncastle”.  He then departed with
the master of the house, and the woman, leaving me to my repose.  I soon
began to feel drowsy, and was just composing myself to slumber, lying on
my back, as the surgeon had advised me, when I heard steps ascending the
stairs, and in a moment more the surgeon entered again, followed by the
master of the house.  “I hope we don’t disturb you,” said the former; “my
reason for returning is to relieve your mind from any anxiety with
respect to your horse.  I am by no means sure that you will be able,
owing to your accident, to reach Horncastle in time: to quiet you,
however, I will buy your horse for any reasonable sum.  I have been down
to the stable, and approve of his figure.  What do you ask for him?”
“This is a strange time of night,” said I, “to come to me about
purchasing my horse, and I am hardly in a fitting situation to be applied
to about such a matter.  What do you want him for?”  “For my own use,”
said the surgeon; “I am a professional man, and am obliged to be
continually driving about; I cover at least one hundred and fifty miles
every week.”  “He will never answer your purpose,” said I; “he is not a
driving horse, and was never between shafts in his life; he is for
riding, more especially for trotting, at which he has few equals.”  “It
matters not to me whether he is for riding or driving,” said the surgeon,
“sometimes I ride, sometimes drive; so, if we can come to terms, I will
buy him, though, remember, it is chiefly to remove any anxiety from your
mind about him.”  “This is no time for bargaining,” said I; “if you wish
to have the horse for a hundred guineas, you may; if not—”  “A hundred
guineas!” said the surgeon; “my good friend, you must surely be
light-headed—allow me to feel your pulse,” and he attempted to feel my
left wrist.  “I am not light-headed,” said I, “and I require no one to
feel my pulse; but I should be light-headed if I were to sell my horse
for less than I have demanded; but I have a curiosity to know what you
would be willing to offer.”  “Thirty pounds,” said the surgeon, “is all I
can afford to give; and that is a great deal for a country surgeon to
offer for a horse.”  “Thirty pounds!” said I, “why, he cost me nearly
double that sum.  To tell you the truth, I am afraid you want to take
advantage of my situation.”  “Not in the least, friend,” said the
surgeon, “not in the least; I only wished to set your mind at rest about
your horse; but as you think he is worth more than I can afford to offer,
take him to Horncastle by all means; I will do my best to cure you in
time.  Good-night, I will see you again on the morrow.”  Thereupon he
once more departed with the master of the house.  “A sharp one,” I heard
him say, with a laugh, as the door closed upon him.

Left to myself, I again essayed to compose myself to rest, but for some
time in vain.  I had been terribly shaken by my fall, and had
subsequently, owing to the incision of the surgeon’s lancet, been
deprived of much of the vital fluid; it is when the body is in such a
state that the merest trifles affect and agitate the mind; no wonder,
then, that the return of the surgeon and the master of the house for the
purpose of inquiring whether I would sell my horse, struck me as being
highly extraordinary, considering the hour of the night, and the
situation in which they knew me to be.  What could they mean by such
conduct—did they wish to cheat me of the animal?  “Well, well,” said I,
“if they did, what matters, they found their match; yes, yes,” said I,
“but I am in their power, perhaps”—but I instantly dismissed the
apprehension which came into my mind, with a pooh, nonsense!  In a little
time, however, a far more foolish and chimerical idea began to disturb
me—the idea of being flung from my horse; was I not disgraced for ever as
a horseman by being flung from my horse?  Assuredly I thought; and the
idea of being disgraced as a horseman, operating on my nervous system,
caused me very acute misery.  “After all,” said I to myself, “it was
perhaps the contemptible opinion which the surgeon must have formed of my
equestrian powers, which induced him to offer to take my horse off my
hands; he perhaps thought I was unable to manage a horse, and therefore
in pity returned in the dead of night to offer to purchase the animal
which had flung me;” and then the thought that the surgeon had conceived
a contemptible opinion of my equestrian powers, caused me the acutest
misery, and continued tormenting me until some other idea (I have forgot
what it was, but doubtless equally foolish) took possession of my mind.
At length, brought on by the agitation of my spirits, there came over me
the same feeling of horror that I had experienced of old when I was a
boy, and likewise of late within the dingle; it was, however, not so
violent as it had been on those occasions, and I struggled manfully
against it until by degrees it passed away, and then I fell asleep; and
in my sleep I had an ugly dream.  I dreamt that I had died of the
injuries I had received from my fall, and that no sooner had my soul
departed from my body than it entered that of a quadruped, even my own
horse in the stable—in a word, I was, to all intents and purposes, my own
steed; and as I stood in the stable chewing hay (and I remembered that
the hay was exceedingly tough), the door opened, and the surgeon who had
attended me came in.  “My good animal,” said he, “as your late master has
scarcely left enough to pay for the expenses of his funeral, and nothing
to remunerate me for my trouble, I shall make bold to take possession of
you.  If your paces are good, I shall keep you for my own riding; if not,
I shall take you to Horncastle, your original destination.”  He then
bridled and saddled me, and leading me out, mounted, and then trotted me
up and down before the house, at the door of which the old man, who now
appeared to be dressed in regular jockey fashion, was standing.  “I like
his paces well,” said the surgeon; “I think I shall take him for my own
use.”  “And what am I to have for all the trouble his master caused me?”
said my late entertainer, on whose countenance I now observed, for the
first time, a diabolical squint.  “The consciousness of having done your
duty to a fellow-creature in succouring him in a time of distress, must
be your reward,” said the surgeon.  “Pretty gammon, truly,” said my late
entertainer.  “What would you say if I were to talk in that way to you?
Come, unless you choose to behave jonnock, I shall take the bridle and
lead the horse back into the stable.”  “Well,” said the surgeon, “we are
old friends, and I don’t wish to dispute with you, so I’ll tell you what
I will do.  I will ride the animal to Horncastle, and we will share what
he fetches like brothers.”  “Good,” said the old man, “but if you say
that you have sold him for less than a hundred, I shan’t consider you
jonnock; remember what the young fellow said—that young fellow—”  I heard
no more, for the next moment I found myself on a broad road leading, as I
supposed, in the direction of Horncastle, the surgeon still in the
saddle, and my legs moving at a rapid trot.  “Get on,” said the surgeon,
jerking my mouth with the bit; whereupon, full of rage, I instantly set
off at full gallop, determined, if possible, to dash my rider to the
earth.  The surgeon, however, kept his seat, and so far from attempting
to abate my speed, urged me on to greater efforts with a stout stick,
which methought he held in his hand.  In vain did I rear and kick,
attempting to get rid of my foe; but the surgeon remained as saddle-fast
as ever the Maugrabin sorcerer in the Arabian tale, what time he rode the
young prince transformed into a steed to his enchanted palace in the
wilderness.  At last, as I was still madly dashing on, panting and
blowing, and had almost given up all hope, I saw at a distance before me
a heap of stones by the side of the road, probably placed there for the
purpose of repairing it; a thought appeared to strike me—I will shy at
those stones, and, if I can’t get rid of him so, resign myself to my
fate.  So I increased my speed, till arriving within about ten yards of
the heap, I made a desperate start, turning half-round with nearly the
velocity of a mill-stone.  Oh, the joy I experienced when I felt my enemy
canted over my neck, and saw him lying senseless in the road.  “I have
you now in my power,” I said, or rather neighed, as, going up to my
prostrate foe, I stood over him.  “Suppose I were to rear now, and let my
fore feet fall upon you, what would your life be worth? that is,
supposing you are not killed already; but lie there, I will do you no
further harm, but trot to Horncastle without a rider, and when there—”
and without further reflection off I trotted in the direction of
Horncastle, but had not gone far before my bridle, falling from my neck,
got entangled with my off fore foot.  I felt myself falling, a thrill of
agony shot through me—my knees would be broken, and what should I do at
Horncastle with a pair of broken knees; I struggled, but I could not
disengage my off fore foot, and downward I fell, but before I had reached
the ground I awoke, and found myself half out of bed, my bandaged arm in
considerable pain, and my left hand just touching the floor.

With some difficulty I readjusted myself in bed.  It was now early
morning, and the first rays of the sun were beginning to penetrate the
white curtains of a window on my left, which probably looked into a
garden, as I caught a glimpse or two of the leaves of trees through a
small uncovered part at the side.  For some time I felt uneasy and
anxious, my spirits being in a strange fluttering state.  At last my eyes
fell upon a small row of teacups, seemingly of china, which stood on a
mantelpiece exactly fronting the bottom of the bed.  The sight of these
objects, I know not why, soothed and pacified me; I kept my eyes fixed
upon them, as I lay on my back on the bed, with my head upon the pillow,
till at last I fell into a calm and refreshing sleep.

                                * * * * *

                        [_End of Vol. I._, 1857.]

                                * * * * *




CHAPTER XXXII.


IT might be about eight o’clock in the morning when I was awakened by the
entrance of the old man.  “How have you rested?” said he, coming up to
the bedside, and looking me in the face.  “Well,” said I, “and I feel
much better, but I am still very sore.”  I surveyed him now for the first
time with attention.  He was dressed in a sober- suit, and was
apparently between sixty and seventy.  In stature he was rather above the
middle height, but with a slight stoop; his features were placid, and
expressive of much benevolence, but as it appeared to me, with rather a
melancholy cast.  As I gazed upon them, I felt ashamed that I should ever
have conceived in my brain a vision like that of the preceding night, in
which he appeared in so disadvantageous a light.  At length he said: “It
is now time for you to take some refreshment.  I hear my old servant
coming up with your breakfast.”  In a moment the elderly female entered
with a tray, on which was some bread and butter, a teapot and cup.  The
cup was of common blue earthenware, but the pot was of china, curiously
fashioned, and seemingly of great antiquity.  The old man poured me out a
cupful of tea, and then, with the assistance of the woman, raised me
higher, and propped me up with pillows.  I ate and drank; when the pot
was emptied of its liquid (it did not contain much), I raised it up with
my left hand to inspect it.  The sides were covered with curious
characters, seemingly hieroglyphics.  After surveying them for some time,
I replaced it upon the tray.  “You seem fond of china,” said I to the old
man, after the servant had retired with the breakfast things, and I had
returned to my former posture; “you have china on the mantelpiece, and
that was a remarkable teapot out of which I have just been drinking.”

The old man fixed his eyes intently on me, and methought the expression
of his countenance became yet more melancholy.  “Yes,” said he at last,
“I am fond of china—I have reason to be fond of china—but for china I
should—” and here he sighed again.

“You value it for the quaintness and singularity of its form,” said I;
“it appears to be less adapted for real use than our own pottery.”

“I care little about its form,” said the old man; “I care for it simply
on account of — however, why talk to you on the subject which can have no
possible interest for you?  I expect the surgeon here presently.”

“I do not like that surgeon at all,” said I; “how strangely he behaved
last night, coming back, when I was just falling asleep, to ask me if I
would sell my horse.”

The old man smiled.  “He has but one failing,” said he, “an itch for
horse-dealing; but for that he might be a much richer man than he is; he
is continually buying and exchanging horses, and generally finds himself
a loser by his bargains: but he is a worthy creature, and skilful in his
profession; it is well for you that you are under his care.”

The old man then left me, and in about an hour returned with the surgeon,
who examined me and reported favourably as to my case.  He spoke to me
with kindness and feeling, and did not introduce the subject of the
horse.  I asked him whether he thought I should be in time for the fair.
“I saw some people making their way thither to-day,” said he; “the fair
lasts three weeks, and it has just commenced.  Yes, I think I may promise
you that you will be in time for the very heat of it.  In a few days you
will be able to mount your saddle with your arm in a sling, but you must
by no means appear with your arm in a sling at Horncastle, as people
would think that your horse had flung you, and that you wanted to dispose
of him because he was a vicious brute.  You must, by all means, drop the
sling before you get to Horncastle.”

For three days I kept my apartment by the advice of the surgeon.  I
passed my time as I best could.  Stretched on my bed, I either abandoned
myself to reflection, or listened to the voices of the birds in the
neighbouring garden.  Sometimes, as I lay awake at night, I would
endeavour to catch the tick of a clock, which methought sounded from some
distant part of the house.

The old man visited me twice or thrice every day to inquire into my
state.  His words were few on these occasions, and he did not stay long.
Yet his voice and his words were kind.  What surprised me most in
connection with this individual was, the delicacy of conduct which he
exhibited in not letting a word proceed from his lips which could testify
curiosity respecting who I was, or whence I came.  All he knew of me was,
that I had been flung from my horse on my way to a fair for the purpose
of disposing of the animal, and that I was now his guest.  I might be a
common horse-dealer for what he knew, yet I was treated by him with all
the attention which I could have expected, had I been an alderman of
Boston’s heir, and known to him as such.  The county in which I am now,
thought I at last, must be either extraordinarily devoted to hospitality,
or this old host of mine must be an extraordinary individual.  On the
evening of the fourth day, feeling tired of my confinement, I put my
clothes on in the best manner I could, and left the chamber.  Descending
a flight of stairs, I reached a kind of quadrangle, from which branched
two or three passages; one of these I entered, which had a door at the
farther end, and one on each side; the one to the left standing partly
open, I entered it, and found myself in a middle-sized room with a large
window, or rather glass door, which looked into a garden, and which stood
open.  There was nothing remarkable in this room, except a large quantity
of china.  There was china on the mantelpiece, china on two tables, and a
small beaufet, which stood opposite the glass door, was covered with
china; there were cups, teapots and vases of various forms, and on all of
them I observed characters—not a teapot, not a teacup, not a vase of
whatever form or size, but appeared to possess hieroglyphics on some part
or other.  After surveying these articles for some time with no little
interest, I passed into the garden, in which there were small parterres
of flowers, and two or three trees, and which, where the house did not
abut, was bounded by a wall; turning to the right by a walk by the side
of the house, I passed by a door—probably the one I had seen at the end
of the passage—and arrived at another window similar to that through
which I had come, and which also stood open; I was about to pass by it;
when I heard the voice of my entertainer exclaiming: “Is that you? pray
come in.”

I entered the room, which seemed to be a counterpart of the one which I
had just left.  It was of the same size, had the same kind of furniture,
and appeared to be equally well stocked with china; one prominent article
it possessed, however, which the other room did not exhibit—namely, a
clock, which, with its pendulum moving tick-a-tick, hung against the wall
opposite to the door, the sight of which made me conclude that the sound
which methought I had heard in the stillness of the night was not an
imaginary one.  There it hung on the wall, with its pendulum moving
tick-a-tick.  The old gentleman was seated in an easy-chair a little way
into the room, having the glass door on his right hand.  On a table
before him lay a large open volume, in which I observed Roman letters as
well as characters.  A few inches beyond the book on the table, covered
all over with hieroglyphics, stood a china vase.  The eyes of the old man
were fixed upon it.

“Sit down,” said he, motioning me with his hand to a stool close by, but
without taking his eyes from the vase.

“I can’t make it out,” said he at last, removing his eyes from the vase,
and leaning back on the chair, “I can’t make it out.”

“I wish I could assist you,” said I.

“Assist me,” said the old man, looking at me with a half smile.

“Yes,” said I, “but I do not understand Chinese.”

“I suppose not,” said the old man, with another slight smile; “but—but—”

“Pray proceed,” said I.

“I wished to ask you,” said the old man, “how you knew that the
characters on yon piece of crockery were Chinese; or, indeed, that there
was such a language?”

“I knew the crockery was china,” said I, “and naturally enough supposed
what was written upon it to be Chinese; as for there being such a
language—the English have a language, the French have a language, and why
not the Chinese?”

“May I ask you a question?”

“As many as you like.”

“Do you know any language besides English?”

“Yes,” said I, “I know a little of two or three.”

“May I ask their names?”

“Why not?” said I, “I know a little French.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, a little Welsh, and a little Haik.”

“What is Haik?”

“Armenian.”

“I am glad to see you in my house,” said the old man, shaking me by the
hand; “how singular that one coming as you did should know Armenian.”

“Not more singular,” said I, “than that one living in such a place as
this should know Chinese.  How came you to acquire it?”

The old man looked at me, and sighed.  “I beg pardon,” said I, “for
asking what is, perhaps, an impertinent question; I have not imitated
your own delicacy; you have never asked me a question without first
desiring permission, and here I have been days and nights in your house
an intruder on your hospitality, and you have never so much as asked me
who I am.”

“In forbearing to do that,” said the old man, “I merely obeyed the
Chinese precept: ‘Ask no questions of a guest’; it is written on both
sides of the teapot out of which you have had your tea.”

“I wish I knew Chinese,” said I.  “Is it a difficult language to
acquire?”

“I have reason to think so,” said the old man.  “I have been occupied
upon it five-and-thirty years, and I am still very imperfectly acquainted
with it; at least, I frequently find upon my crockery sentences the
meaning of which to me is very dark, though it is true these sentences
are mostly verses, which are, of course, more difficult to understand
than mere prose.”

“Are your Chinese studies,” said I, “confined to crockery literature?”

“Entirely,” said the old man; “I read nothing else.”

“I have heard,” said I, “that the Chinese have no letters, but that for
every word they have a separate character—is it so?”

“For every word they have a particular character,” said the old man;
“though, to prevent confusion, they have arranged their words under two
hundred and fourteen what we should call radicals, but which they call
keys.  As we arrange all our words in a dictionary under twenty-four
letters, so do they arrange all their words, or characters, under two
hundred and fourteen radical signs; the simplest radicals being the
first, and the more complex the last.”

“Does the Chinese resemble any of the European languages in words?” said
I.

“I am scarcely competent to inform you,” said the old man; “but I believe
not.”

“What does that character represent?” said I, pointing to one on the
vase.

“A knife,” said the old man; “that character is one of the simplest
radicals or keys.”

“And what is the sound of it?” said I.

“_Tau_,” said the old man.

“Tau,” said I; “tau!”

“A strange word for a knife! is it not?” said the old man.

“Tawse!” said I; “tawse!”

“What is tawse?” said the old man.

“You were never at school at Edinburgh, I suppose?”

“Never,” said the old man.

“That accounts for your not knowing the meaning of tawse,” said I; “had
you received the rudiments of a classical education at the High School,
you would have known the meaning of tawse full well.  It is a leathern
thong, with which refractory urchins are recalled to a sense of their
duty by the dominie.  Tau—tawse—how singular!”

“I cannot see what the two words have in common, except a slight
agreement in sound.”

“You will see the connection,” said I, “when I inform you that the thong,
from the middle to the bottom, is cut or slit into two or three parts,
from which slits or cuts, unless I am very much mistaken, it derives its
name—tawse, a thong with slits or cuts, used for chastising disorderly
urchins at the High School, from the French _tailler_, to cut; evidently
connected with the Chinese tau, a knife—how very extraordinary!”




CHAPTER XXXIII.


TWO days—three days passed away, and I still remained at the house of my
hospitable entertainer, my bruised limb rapidly recovering the power of
performing its functions.  I passed my time agreeably enough, sometimes
in my chamber, communing with my own thoughts; sometimes in the stable,
attending to, and not unfrequently conversing with, my horse; and at
meal-time—for I seldom saw him at any other—discoursing with the old
gentleman, sometimes on the Chinese vocabulary, sometimes on Chinese
syntax, and once or twice on English horseflesh, though on this latter
subject, notwithstanding his descent from a race of horse-traders, he did
not enter with much alacrity.  As a small requital for his kindness, I
gave him one day, after dinner, unasked, a brief account of my history
and pursuits.  He listened with attention, and when it was concluded,
thanked me for the confidence which I had reposed in him.  “Such
conduct,” said he, “deserves a return.  I will tell you my own history;
it is brief, but may perhaps not prove uninteresting to you—though the
relation of it will give me some pain.”  “Pray, then, do not recite it,”
said I.  “Yes,” said the old man, “I will tell you, for I wish you to
know it.”  He was about to begin, when he was interrupted by the arrival
of the surgeon.  The surgeon examined into the state of my bruised limb,
and told me, what indeed I already well knew, that it was rapidly
improving.  “You will not even require a sling,” said he, “to ride to
Horncastle.  When do you propose going?” he demanded.  “When do you think
I may venture?” I replied.  “I think, if you are a tolerably good
horseman, you may mount the day after to-morrow,” answered the medical
man.  “By-the-bye, are you acquainted with anybody at Horncastle?”  “With
no living soul,” I answered.  “Then you would scarcely find stable-room
for your horse.  But I am happy to be able to assist you.  I have a
friend there who keeps a small inn, and who, during the time of the fair,
keeps a stall vacant for any quadruped I may bring, until he knows
whether I am coming or not.  I will give you a letter to him, and he will
see after the accommodation of your horse.  To-morrow I will pay you a
farewell visit, and bring you the letter.”  “Thank you,” said I; “and do
not forget to bring your bill.”  The surgeon looked at the old man, who
gave him a peculiar nod.  “Oh!” said he, in reply to me, “for the little
service I have rendered you, I require no remuneration.  You are in my
friend’s house, and he and I understand each other.”  “I never receive
such favours,” said I, “as you have rendered me, without remunerating
them; therefore, I shall expect your bill.”  “Oh! just as you please,”
said the surgeon; and shaking me by the hand more warmly than he had
hitherto done, he took his leave.

On the evening of the next day, the last which I spent with my kind
entertainer, I sat at tea with him in a little summer-house in his
garden, partially shaded by the boughs of a large fig-tree.  The surgeon
had shortly before paid me his farewell visit, and had brought me the
letter of introduction to his friend at Horncastle, and also his bill,
which I found anything but extravagant.  After we had each respectively
drank the contents of two cups—and it may not be amiss here to inform the
reader that though I took cream with my tea, as I always do when I can
procure that addition, the old man, like most people bred up in the
country, drank his without it—he thus addressed me: “I am, as I told you
on the night of your accident, the son of a breeder of horses, a
respectable and honest man.  When I was about twenty he died, leaving me,
his only child, a comfortable property, consisting of about two hundred
acres of land and some fifteen hundred pounds in money.  My mother had
died about three years previously.  I felt the death of my mother keenly,
but that of my father less than was my duty; indeed, truth compels me to
acknowledge that I scarcely regretted his death.  The cause of this want
of proper filial feeling was the opposition which I had experienced from
him in an affair which deeply concerned me.  I had formed an attachment
for a young female in the neighbourhood, who, though poor, was of highly
respectable birth, her father having been a curate of the Established
Church.  She was, at the time of which I am speaking, an orphan, having
lost both her parents, and supported herself by keeping a small school.
My attachment was returned, and we had pledged our vows, but my father,
who could not reconcile himself to her lack of fortune, forbade our
marriage in the most positive terms.  He was wrong, for she was a fortune
in herself—amiable and accomplished.  Oh! I cannot tell you all she was—”
and here the old man drew his hand across his eyes.  “By the death of my
father, the only obstacle to our happiness appeared to be removed.  We
agreed, therefore, that our marriage should take place within the course
of a year, and I forthwith commenced enlarging my house and getting my
affairs in order.  Having been left in the easy circumstances which I
have described, I determined to follow no business, but to pass my life
in a strictly domestic manner, and to be very, very happy.  Amongst other
property derived from my father were several horses, which I disposed of
in this neighbourhood, with the exception of two remarkably fine ones,
which I determined to take to the next fair at Horncastle, the only place
where I expected to be able to obtain what I considered to be their full
value.  At length the time arrived for the commencement of the fair,
which was within three months of the period which my beloved and myself
had fixed upon for the celebration of our nuptials.  To the fair I went,
a couple of trusty men following me with the horses.  I soon found a
purchaser for the animals, a portly, plausible person, of about forty,
dressed in a blue riding coat, brown top boots, and leather breeches.
There was a strange-looking urchin with him, attired in nearly similar
fashion, with a beam in one of his eyes, who called him father.  The man
paid me for the purchase in bank-notes—three fifty-pound notes for the
two horses.  As we were about to take leave of each other, he suddenly
produced another fifty-pound note, inquiring whether I could change it,
complaining, at the same time, of the difficulty of procuring change in
the fair.  As I happened to have plenty of small money in my possession,
and as I felt obliged to him for having purchased my horses at what I
considered to be a good price, I informed him that I should be very happy
to accommodate him; so I changed him the note, and he, having taken
possession of the horses, went his way, and I myself returned home.

“A month passed; during this time I paid away two of the notes which I
had received at Horncastle from the dealer—one of them in my immediate
neighbourhood, and the other at a town about fifteen miles distant, to
which I had repaired for the purpose of purchasing some furniture.  All
things seemed to be going on most prosperously, and I felt quite happy,
when one morning, as I was overlooking some workmen who were employed
about my house, I was accosted by a constable, who informed me that he
was sent to request my immediate appearance before a neighbouring bench
of magistrates.  Concluding that I was merely summoned on some
unimportant business connected with the neighbourhood, I felt no
surprise, and forthwith departed in company with the officer.  The
demeanour of the man upon the way struck me as somewhat singular.  I had
frequently spoken to him before, and had always found him civil and
respectful, but he was now reserved and sullen, and replied to two or
three questions which I put to him in anything but a courteous manner.
On arriving at the place where the magistrates were sitting—an inn at a
small town about two miles distant—I found a more than usual number of
people assembled, who appeared to be conversing with considerable
eagerness.  At sight of me they became silent, but crowded after me as I
followed the man into the magistrates’ room.  There I found the tradesman
to whom I had paid the note for the furniture at the town fifteen miles
off in attendance, accompanied by an agent of the Bank of England; the
former, it seems, had paid the note into a provincial bank, the
proprietors of which, discovering it to be a forgery, had forthwith
written up to the Bank of England, who had sent down their agent to
investigate the matter.  A third individual stood beside them—the person
in my own immediate neighbourhood to whom I had paid the second note;
this, by some means or other, before the coming down of the agent, had
found its way to the same provincial bank, and also being pronounced a
forgery, it had speedily been traced to the person to whom I had paid it.
It was owing to the apparition of this second note that the agent had
determined, without further inquiry, to cause me to be summoned before
the rural tribunal.

“In a few words the magistrates’ clerk gave me to understand the state of
the case.  I was filled with surprise and consternation.  I knew myself
to be perfectly innocent of any fraudulent intention, but at the time of
which I am speaking it was a matter fraught with the greatest danger to
be mixed up, however innocently, with the passing of false money.  The
law with respect to forgery was terribly severe, and the innocent as well
as the guilty occasionally suffered.  Of this I was not altogether
ignorant; unfortunately, however, in my transactions with the stranger,
the idea of false notes being offered to me, and my being brought into
trouble by means of them, never entered my mind.  Recovering myself a
little, I stated that the notes in question were two of three notes which
I had received at Horncastle, for a pair of horses, which it was well
known I had carried thither.

“Thereupon, I produced from my pocket-book the third note, which was
forthwith pronounced a forgery.  I had scarcely produced the third note,
when I remembered the one which I had changed for the Horncastle dealer,
and with the remembrance came the almost certain conviction that it was
also a forgery; I was tempted for a moment to produce it, and to explain
the circumstance—would to God I had done so!—but shame at the idea of
having been so wretchedly duped prevented me, and the opportunity was
lost.  I must confess that the agent of the bank behaved, upon the whole,
in a very handsome manner; he said that as it was quite evident that I
had disposed of certain horses at the fair, it was very possible that I
might have received the notes in question in exchange for them, and that
he was willing, as he had received a very excellent account of my general
conduct, to press the matter no further, that is, provided—”  And here he
stopped.  Thereupon, one of the three magistrates who were present asked
me whether I chanced to have any more of these spurious notes in my
possession.  He certainly had a right to ask the question; but there was
something peculiar in his tone—insinuating suspicion.  It is certainly
difficult to judge of the motives which rule a person’s conduct, but I
cannot help imagining that he was somewhat influenced in his behaviour on
that occasion, which was anything but friendly, by my having refused to
sell him the horses at a price less than that which I expected to get at
the fair; be this as it may, the question filled me with embarrassment,
and I bitterly repented not having at first been more explicit.
Thereupon the magistrate, in the same kind of tone, demanded to see my
pocket-book.  I knew that to demur would be useless, and produced it, and
therewith, amongst two or three small country notes, appeared the fourth
which I had received from the Horncastle dealer.  The agent took it up
and examined it with attention.  ‘Well, is it a genuine note?’ asked the
magistrate.  ‘I am sorry to say that it is not,’ said the agent; ‘it is a
forgery, like the other three.’  The magistrate shrugged his shoulders,
as indeed did several people in the room.  ‘A regular dealer in forged
notes,’ said a person close behind me; ‘who would have thought it?’

“Seeing matters begin to look so serious, I aroused myself, and
endeavoured to speak in my own behalf, giving a candid account of the
manner in which I became possessed of the notes, but my explanation did
not appear to meet much credit.  The magistrate, to whom I have in
particular alluded, asked, why I had not at once stated the fact of my
having received a fourth note; and the agent, though in a very quiet
tone, observed that he could not help thinking it somewhat strange that I
should have changed a note of so much value for a perfect stranger, even
supposing that he had purchased my horses, and had paid me their value in
hard cash; and I noticed that he laid particular emphasis on the last
words.  I might have observed that I was an inexperienced young man, who,
meaning no harm myself, suspected none in others, but I was confused,
stunned, and my tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of my mouth.  The men
who had taken my horses to Horncastle, and for whom I had sent, as they
lived close at hand, now arrived, but the evidence which they could give
was anything but conclusive in my favour; they had seen me in company
with an individual at Horncastle, to whom, by my orders, they had
delivered certain horses, but they had seen no part of the money
transaction; the fellow, whether from design or not, having taken me
aside into a retired place, where he had paid me three spurious notes,
and induced me to change the fourth, which throughout the affair was what
bore most materially against me.  How matters might have terminated I do
not know; I might have gone to prison, and I might have been—  Just then,
when I most needed a friend, and least expected to find one, for though
amongst those present there were several who were my neighbours, and who
had professed friendship for me, none of them when they saw that I needed
support and encouragement, came forward to yield me any, but, on the
contrary, appeared by their looks to enjoy my terror and confusion—just
then a friend entered the room in the person of the surgeon of the
neighbourhood, the father of him who has attended you; he was not on very
intimate terms with me, but he had occasionally spoken to me, and had
attended my father in his dying illness, and chancing to hear that I was
in trouble, he now hastened to assist me.  After a short preamble, in
which he apologised to the bench for interfering, he begged to be
informed of the state of the case, whereupon the matter was laid before
him in all its details.  He was not slow in taking a fair view of it, and
spoke well and eloquently in my behalf, insisting on the improbability
that a person of my habits and position would be wilfully mixed up with a
transaction like that of which it appeared I was suspected, adding, that
as he was fully convinced of my innocence, he was ready to enter into any
surety with respect to my appearance at any time to answer anything which
might be laid to my charge.  This last observation had particular effect,
and as he was a person universally respected, both for his skill in his
profession and his general demeanour, people began to think that a person
in whom he took an interest could scarcely be concerned in anything
criminal, and though my friend the magistrate—I call him so
ironically—made two or three demurs, it was at last agreed between him
and his brethren of the bench, that, for the present, I should be merely
called upon to enter into my own recognisance for the sum of two hundred
pounds, to appear whenever it should be deemed requisite to enter into
any further investigation of the matter.

“So I was permitted to depart from the tribunal of petty justice without
handcuffs, and uncollared by a constable; but people looked coldly and
suspiciously upon me.  The first thing I did was to hasten to the house
of my beloved, in order to inform her of every circumstance attending the
transaction.  I found her, but how?  A malicious female individual had
hurried to her with a distorted tale, to the effect that I had been taken
up as an utterer of forged notes; that an immense number had been found
in my possession; that I was already committed, and that probably I
should be executed.  My affianced one tenderly loved me, and her
constitution was delicate; fit succeeded fit; she broke a blood-vessel,
and I found her deluged in blood; the surgeon had just been sent for; he
came and afforded her every possible relief.  I was distracted; he bade
me have hope, but I observed he looked very grave.

“By the skill of the surgeon, the poor girl was saved in the first
instance from the arms of death, and for a few weeks she appeared to be
rapidly recovering; by degrees, however, she became melancholy; a worm
preyed upon her spirit; a slow fever took possession of her frame.  I
subsequently learned that the same malicious female who had first carried
to her an exaggerated account of the affair, and who was a distant
relative of her own, frequently visited her, and did all in her power to
excite her fears with respect to its eventual termination.  Time passed
on in a very wretched manner, our friend the surgeon showing to us both
every mark of kindness and attention.

“It was owing to this excellent man that my innocence was eventually
established.  Having been called to a town on the borders of Yorkshire to
a medical consultation, he chanced to be taking a glass of wine with the
landlord of the inn at which he stopped, when the waiter brought in a
note to be changed, saying, ‘That the Quaker gentleman, who had been for
some days in the house, and was about to depart, had sent it to be
changed, in order that he might pay his bill’.  The landlord took the
note, and looked at it.  ‘A fifty-pound bill,’ said he; ‘I don’t like
changing bills of that amount, lest they should prove bad ones; however,
as it comes from a Quaker gentleman, I suppose it is all right.’  The
mention of a fifty-pound note aroused the attention of my friend, and he
requested to be permitted to look at it; he had scarcely seen it, when he
was convinced that it was one of the same description as those which had
brought me into trouble, as it corresponded with them in two particular
features, which the agent of the bank had pointed out to him and others
as evidence of their spuriousness.  My friend, without a moment’s
hesitation, informed the landlord that the note was a bad one, expressing
at the same time a great wish to see the Quaker gentleman who wanted to
have it changed.  ‘That you can easily do,’ said the landlord, and
forthwith conducted him into the common room, where he saw a
respectable-looking man, dressed like a Quaker, and seemingly about sixty
years of age.

“My friend, after a short apology, showed him the note which he held in
his hand, stating that he had no doubt it was a spurious one, and begged
to be informed where he had taken it, adding, that a particular friend of
his was at present in trouble, owing to his having taken similar notes
from a stranger at Horncastle; but that he hoped that he, the Quaker,
could give information, by means of which the guilty party, or parties,
could be arrested.  At the mention of Horncastle, it appeared to my
friend that the Quaker gave a slight start.  At the conclusion of this
speech, however, he answered with great tranquillity, that he had
received it in the way of business at — naming one of the principal towns
in Yorkshire, from a very respectable person, whose name he was perfectly
willing to communicate, and likewise his own, which he said was James,
and that he was a merchant residing at Liverpool; that he would write to
his friend at —, requesting him to make inquiries on the subject; that
just at that moment he was in a hurry to depart, having some particular
business at a town about ten miles off, to go to which he had bespoken a
post-chaise of the landlord; that with respect to the note, it was
doubtless a very disagreeable thing to have a suspicious one in his
possession, but that it would make little difference to him, as he had
plenty of other money, and thereupon he pulled out a purse, containing
various other notes, and some gold, observing, ‘that his only motive for
wishing to change the other note was a desire to be well provided with
change’; and finally, that if they had any suspicion with respect to him,
he was perfectly willing to leave the note in their possession till he
should return, which he intended to do in about a fortnight.  There was
so much plausibility in the speech of the Quaker, and his appearance and
behaviour were so perfectly respectable, that my friend felt almost
ashamed of the suspicion which at first he had entertained of him,
though, at the same time, he felt an unaccountable unwillingness to let
the man depart without some further interrogation.  The landlord,
however, who did not wish to disoblige one who had been, and might
probably be again, a profitable customer, declared that he was perfectly
satisfied, and that he had no wish to detain the note, which he made no
doubt the gentleman had received in the way of business, and that as the
matter concerned him alone, he would leave it to him to make the
necessary inquiries.  ‘Just as you please, friend,’ said the Quaker,
pocketing the suspicious note; ‘I will now pay my bill.’  Thereupon he
discharged the bill with a five-pound note, which he begged the landlord
to inspect carefully, and with two pieces of gold.

“The landlord had just taken the money, receipted the bill, and was
bowing to his customer, when the door opened, and a lad, dressed in a
kind of grey livery, appeared, and informed the Quaker that the chaise
was ready.  ‘Is that boy your servant?’ said the surgeon.  ‘He is,
friend,’ said the Quaker.  ‘Hast thou any reason for asking me that
question?’  ‘And has he been long in your service?’  ‘Several years,’
replied the Quaker; ‘I took him into my house out of compassion, he being
an orphan, but as the chaise is waiting, I will bid thee farewell.’  ‘I
am afraid I must stop your journey for the present,’ said the surgeon;
‘that boy has exactly the same blemish in the eye which a boy had who was
in company with the man at Horncastle, from whom my friend received the
forged notes, and who there passed for his son.’  ‘I know nothing about
that,’ said the Quaker, ‘but I am determined to be detained here no
longer, after the satisfactory account which I have given as to the
note’s coming into my possession.’  He then attempted to leave the room,
but my friend detained him, a struggle ensued, during which a wig which
the Quaker wore fell off, whereupon he instantly appeared to lose some
twenty years of his age.  ‘Knock the fellow down, father,’ said the boy;
‘I’ll help you.’

“And, forsooth, the pretended Quaker took the boy’s advice, and knocked
my friend down in a twinkling.  The landlord, however, and waiter, seeing
how matters stood, instantly laid hold of him; but there can be no doubt
that he would have escaped from the whole three, had not certain guests
who were in the house hearing the noise, rushed in, and helped to secure
him.  The boy was true to his word, assisting him to the best of his
ability, flinging himself between the legs of his father’s assailants,
causing several of them to stumble and fall.  At length, the fellow was
secured, and led before a magistrate; the boy, to whom he was heard to
say something which nobody understood, and to whom, after the man’s
capture, no one paid much attention, was no more seen.

“The rest, as far as this man was concerned, may be told in a few words;
nothing to criminate him was found on his person, but on his baggage
being examined, a quantity of spurious notes was discovered.  Much of his
hardihood now forsook him, and in the hope of saving his life he made
some very important disclosures; amongst other things, he confessed that
it was he who had given me the notes in exchange for the horses, and also
the note to be changed.  He was subsequently tried on two indictments, in
the second of which I appeared against him.  He was condemned to die;
but, in consideration of the disclosures he had made, his sentence was
commuted to perpetual transportation.

“My innocence was thus perfectly established before the eyes of the
world, and all my friends hastened to congratulate me.  There was one who
congratulated me more than all the rest—it was my beloved one,
but—but—she was dying—”

Here the old man drew his hand before his eyes, and remained for some
time without speaking; at length he removed his hand, and commenced again
with a broken voice: “You will pardon me if I hurry over this part of my
story; I am unable to dwell upon it.  How dwell upon a period when I saw
my only earthly treasure pine away gradually day by day, and knew that
nothing could save her!  She saw my agony, and did all she could to
console me, saying that she was herself quite resigned.  A little time
before her death she expressed a wish that we should be united.  I was
too happy to comply with her request.  We were united, I brought her to
this house, where, in less than a week, she expired in my arms.”




CHAPTER XXXIV.


AFTER another pause, the old man once more resumed his narration: “If
ever there was a man perfectly miserable it was myself, after the loss of
that cherished woman.  I sat solitary in the house, in which I had hoped
in her company to realise the choicest earthly happiness, a prey to the
bitterest reflections; many people visited, and endeavoured to console
me.  Amongst them was the clergyman of the parish, who begged me to be
resigned, and told me that it was good to be afflicted.  I bowed my head,
but I could not help thinking how easy it must be for those who feel no
affliction to bid others to be resigned, and to talk of the benefit
resulting from sorrow; perhaps I should have paid more attention to his
discourse than I did, provided he had been a person for whom it was
possible to entertain much respect, but his own heart was known to be set
on the things of this world.

“Within a little time he had an opportunity, in his own case, of
practising resignation, and of realising the benefit of being afflicted.
A merchant, to whom he had entrusted all his fortune, in the hope of a
large interest, became suddenly a bankrupt, with scarcely any assets.  I
will not say that it was owing to this misfortune that the divine died in
less than a month after its occurrence, but such was the fact.  Amongst
those who most frequently visited me was my friend the surgeon; he did
not confine himself to the common topics of consolation, but endeavoured
to impress upon me the necessity of rousing myself, advising me to occupy
my mind with some pursuit, particularly recommending agriculture; but
agriculture possessed no interest for me, nor, indeed, any pursuit within
my reach; my hopes of happiness had been blighted, and what cared I for
anything? so at last he thought it best to leave me to myself, hoping
that time would bring with it consolation; and I remained solitary in my
house, waited upon by a male and a female servant.  Oh, what dreary
moments I passed!  My only amusement—and it was a sad one—was to look at
the things which once belonged to my beloved, and which were now in my
possession.  Oh, how fondly would I dwell upon them!  There were some
books; I cared not for books, but these had belonged to my beloved.  Oh,
how fondly did I dwell on them!  Then there was her hat and bonnet—oh,
me, how fondly did I gaze upon them! and after looking at her things for
hours, I would sit and ruminate on the happiness I had lost.  How I
execrated the moment I had gone to the fair to sell horses!  ‘Would that
I had never been at Horncastle to sell horses!’ I would say; ‘I might at
this moment have been enjoying the company of my beloved, leading a
happy, quiet, easy life, but for that fatal expedition;’ that thought
worked on my brain, till my brain seemed to turn round.

“One day I sat at the breakfast-table gazing vacantly around me; my mind
was in a state of inexpressible misery; there was a whirl in my brain,
probably like that which people feel who are rapidly going mad; this
increased to such a degree that I felt giddiness coming upon me.  To
abate this feeling I no longer permitted my eyes to wander about, but
fixed them upon an object on the table, and continued gazing at it for
several minutes without knowing what it was; at length, the misery in my
head was somewhat stilled, my lips moved, and I heard myself saying,
‘What odd marks!’  I had fastened my eyes on the side of a teapot, and by
keeping them fixed upon it, had become aware of a fact that had escaped
my notice before—namely, that there were marks upon it.  I kept my eyes
fixed upon them, and repeated at intervals, ‘What strange marks!’ for I
thought that looking upon the marks tended to abate the whirl in my head.
I kept tracing the marks one after the other, and I observed that though
they all bore a general resemblance to each other, they were all to a
certain extent different.  The smallest portion possible of curious
interest had been awakened within me, and, at last, I asked myself,
within my own mind: ‘What motive could induce people to put such odd
marks on their crockery?  They were not pictures, they were not letters;
what motive could people have for putting them there?’  At last, I
removed my eyes from the teapot, and thought for a few moments about the
marks; presently, however, I felt the whirl returning; the marks became
almost effaced from my mind, and I was beginning to revert to my
miserable ruminations, when suddenly methought I heard a voice say: ‘The
marks! the marks! cling to the marks! or—’  So I fixed my eyes again upon
the marks, inspecting them more attentively, if possible, than I had done
before, and, at last, I came to the conclusion that they were not
capricious or fanciful marks, but were arranged systematically; when I
had gazed at them for a considerable time, I turned the teapot round, and
on the other side I observed marks of a similar kind, which I soon
discovered were identical with the ones I had been observing.  All the
marks were something alike, but all somewhat different, and on comparing
them with each other, I was struck with the frequent occurrence of a mark
crossing an upright line, or projecting from it, now on the right, now on
the left side; and I said to myself: ‘Why does this mark sometimes cross
the upright line, and sometimes project?’ and the more I thought on the
matter, the less did I feel of the misery in my head.

“The things were at length removed, and I sat, as I had for some time
past been wont to sit after my meals, silent and motionless; but in the
present instance my mind was not entirely abandoned to the one mournful
idea which had so long distressed it.  It was, to a certain extent,
occupied with the marks on the teapot; it is true that the mournful idea
strove hard with the marks on the teapot for the mastery in my mind, and
at last the painful idea drove the marks of the teapot out; they,
however, would occasionally return and flit across my mind for a moment
or two, and their coming was like a momentary relief from intense pain.
I thought once or twice that I would have the teapot placed before me,
that I might examine the marks at leisure, but I considered that it would
be as well to defer the re-examination of the marks till the next
morning; at that time I did not take tea of an evening.  By deferring the
examination thus, I had something to look forward to on the next morning.
The day was a melancholy one, but it certainly was more tolerable to me
than any of the others had been since the death of my beloved.  As I lay
awake that night I occasionally thought of the marks, and in my sleep
methought I saw them upon the teapot vividly before me.  On the morrow, I
examined the marks again; how singular they looked!  Surely they must
mean something, and if so, what could they mean? and at last I thought
within myself whether it would be possible for me to make out what they
meant: that day I felt more relief than on the preceding one, and towards
night I walked a little about.

“In about a week’s time I received a visit from my friend the surgeon;
after a little discourse, he told me that he perceived I was better than
when he had last seen me, and asked me what I had been about; I told him
that I had been principally occupied in considering certain marks which I
had found on a teapot, and wondering what they could mean; he smiled at
first, but instantly assuming a serious look, he asked to see the teapot.
I produced it, and after having surveyed the marks with attention, he
observed that they were highly curious, and also wondered what they
meant.  ‘I strongly advise you,’ said he, ‘to attempt to make them out,
and also to take moderate exercise, and to see after your concerns.’  I
followed his advice; every morning I studied the marks on the teapot, and
in the course of the day took moderate exercise, and attended to little
domestic matters, as became the master of a house.

“I subsequently learned that the surgeon, in advising me to study the
marks, and endeavour to make out their meaning, merely hoped that by
means of them my mind might by degrees be diverted from the mournful idea
on which it had so long brooded.  He was a man well skilled in his
profession, but had read and thought very little on matters unconnected
with it.  He had no idea that the marks had any particular signification,
or were anything else but common and fortuitous ones.  That I became at
all acquainted with their nature was owing to a ludicrous circumstance
which I will now relate.

“One day, chancing to be at a neighbouring town, I was struck with the
appearance of a shop recently established.  It had an immense bow-window,
and every part of it, to which a brush could be applied, was painted in a
gaudy flaming style.  Large bowls of green and black tea were placed upon
certain chests, which stood at the window.  I stopped to look at them,
such a display, whatever it may be at the present time, being at the
period of which I am speaking, quite uncommon in a country town.  The
tea, whether black or green, was very shining and inviting, and the
bowls, of which there were three, standing on as many chests, were very
grand and foreign looking.  Two of these were white, with figures and
trees painted upon them in blue; the other, which was the middlemost, had
neither trees nor figures upon it, but as I looked through the window,
appeared to have on its sides the very same kind of marks which I had
observed on the teapot at home; there were also marks on the tea-chests,
somewhat similar, but much larger, and apparently, not executed with so
much care.  ‘Best teas direct from China,’ said a voice close to my side;
and looking round I saw a youngish man, with a frizzled head, flat face,
and an immensely wide mouth, standing in his shirt-sleeves by the door.
‘Direct from China,’ said he; ‘perhaps you will do me the favour to walk
in and scent them?’  ‘I do not want any tea,’ said I; ‘I was only
standing at the window examining those marks on the bowl and the chests.
I have observed similar ones on a teapot at home.’  ‘Pray walk in, sir,’
said the young fellow, extending his mouth till it reached nearly from
ear to ear; ‘pray walk in, and I shall be happy to give you any
information respecting the manners and customs of the Chinese in my
power.’  Thereupon I followed him into his shop, where he began to
harangue on the manners, customs and peculiarities of the Chinese,
especially their manner of preparing tea, not forgetting to tell me that
the only genuine Chinese tea ever imported into England was to be found
in his shop.  ‘With respect to those marks,’ said he, ‘on the bowl and
chests, they are nothing more nor less than Chinese writing, expressing
something, though what I can’t exactly tell you.  Allow me to sell you
this pound of tea,’ he added, showing me a paper parcel.  ‘On the
envelope there is a printed account of the Chinese system of writing,
extracted from authors of the most established reputation.  These things
I print principally with the hope of, in some degree, removing the worse
than Gothic ignorance prevalent amongst the natives of these parts.  I am
from London myself.  With respect to all that relates to the Chinese real
imperial tea, I assure you sir, that—’  Well, to make short of what you
doubtless consider a very tiresome story, I purchased the tea and carried
it home.  The tea proved imperially bad, but the paper envelope really
contained some information on the Chinese language and writing, amounting
to about as much as you gained from me the other day.  On learning that
the marks on the teapot expressed words, I felt my interest with respect
to them considerably increased and returned to the task of inspecting
them with greater zeal than before, hoping, by continually looking at
them, to be able eventually to understand their meaning, in which hope
you may easily believe I was disappointed, though my desire to understand
what they represented continued on the increase.  In this dilemma I
determined to apply again to the shopkeeper from whom I bought the tea.
I found him in rather low spirits, his shirt-sleeves were soiled, and his
hair was out of curl.  On my inquiring how he got on, he informed me that
he intended speedily to leave, having received little or no
encouragement, the people, in their Gothic ignorance, preferring to deal
with an old-fashioned shopkeeper over the way, who, so far from
possessing any acquaintance with the polity and institutions of the
Chinese, did not, he firmly believed, know that tea came from China.
‘You are come for some more, I suppose?’ said he.  On receiving an answer
in the negative he looked somewhat blank, but when I added that I came to
consult with him as to the means which I must take in order to acquire
the Chinese language he brightened up.  ‘You must get a grammar,’ said
he, rubbing his hands.  ‘Have you not one?’ said I.  ‘No,’ he replied,
‘but any bookseller can procure you one.’  As I was taking my departure,
he told me that as he was about to leave the neighbourhood, the bowl at
the window, which bore the inscription, besides some other pieces of
porcelain of a similar description, were at my service, provided I chose
to purchase them.  I consented, and two or three days afterwards took
from off his hands all the china in his possession which bore
inscriptions, paying what he demanded.  Had I waited till the sale of his
effects, which occurred within a few weeks, I could probably have
procured it for a fifth part of the sum which I paid, the other pieces
realising very little.  I did not, however, grudge the poor fellow what
he got from me, as I considered myself to be somewhat in his debt for the
information he had afforded me.

“As for the rest of my story it may be briefly told.  I followed the
advice of the shopkeeper, and applied to a bookseller who wrote to his
correspondent in London.  After a long interval, I was informed that if I
wished to learn Chinese I must do so through the medium of French, there
being neither Chinese grammar nor dictionary in our language.  I was at
first very much disheartened.  I determined, however, at last to gratify
my desire of learning Chinese, even at the expense of learning French.  I
procured the books, and in order to qualify myself to turn them to
account, took lessons in French from a little Swiss, the usher of a
neighbouring boarding-school.  I was very stupid in acquiring French;
perseverance, however, enabled me to acquire a knowledge sufficient for
the object I had in view.  In about two years I began to study Chinese by
myself, through the medium of the French.”

“Well,” said I, “and how did you get on with the study of the Chinese?”

And then the old man proceeded to inform me how he got on with the study
of Chinese, enumerated all the difficulties he had had to encounter;
dilating upon his frequent despondency of mind, and occasionally his
utter despair of ever mastering Chinese.  He told me that more than once
he had determined upon giving up the study, but then the misery in his
head forthwith returned, to escape from which he had as often resumed it.
It appeared, however, that ten years elapsed before he was able to use
ten of the two hundred and fourteen keys, which serve to undo the locks
of Chinese writing.

“And are you able at present to use the entire number?” I demanded.

“Yes,” said the old man; “I can at present use the whole number.  I know
the key for every particular lock, though I frequently find the wards
unwilling to give way.”

“Has nothing particular occurred to you,” said I, “during the time that
you have been prosecuting your studies?”

“During the whole time in which I have been engaged in these studies,”
said the old man, “only one circumstance has occurred which requires any
particular mention—the death of my old friend the surgeon—who was carried
off suddenly by a fit of apoplexy.  His death was a great shock to me,
and for a time interrupted my studies.  His son, however, who succeeded
him, was very kind to me, and, in some degree, supplied his father’s
place; and I gradually returned to my Chinese locks and keys.”

“And in applying keys to the Chinese locks you employ your time?”

“Yes,” said the old man; “in making out the inscriptions on the various
pieces of porcelain, which I have at different times procured, I pass my
time.  The first inscription which I translated was that on the teapot of
my beloved.”

“And how many other pieces of porcelain may you have at present in your
possession?”

“About fifteen hundred.”

“And how did you obtain them?” I demanded.

“Without much labour,” said the old man, “in the neighbouring towns and
villages—chiefly at auctions, of which, about twenty years ago, there
were many in these parts.”

“And may I ask your reasons for confining your studies entirely to the
crockery literature of China, when you have all the rest at your
disposal?”

“The inscriptions enable me to pass my time,” said the old man; “what
more would the whole literature of China do?”

“And from those inscriptions,” said I, “what a book it is in your power
to make, whenever so disposed.  ‘Translations from the crockery
literature of China.’  Such a book would be sure to take; even glorious
John himself would not disdain to publish it.”

The old man smiled.  “I have no desire for literary distinction,” said
he; “no ambition.  My original wish was to pass my life in easy, quiet
obscurity, with her whom I loved.  I was disappointed in my wish; she was
removed, who constituted my only felicity in this life; desolation came
to my heart, and misery to my head.  To escape from the latter I had
recourse to Chinese.  By degrees the misery left my head, but the
desolation of the heart yet remains.”

“Be of good cheer,” said I; “through the instrumentality of this
affliction you have learnt Chinese, and, in so doing, learnt to practice
the duties of hospitality.  Who but a man who could read Runes on a
teapot, would have received an unfortunate wayfarer as you have received
me?”

“Well,” said the old man, “let us hope that all is for the best.  I am by
nature indolent, and, but for this affliction, should, perhaps, have
hardly taken the trouble to do my duty to my fellow-creatures.  I am
very, very indolent,” said he, slightly glancing towards the clock;
“therefore let us hope that all is for the best; but, oh! these trials,
they are very hard to bear.”




CHAPTER XXXV.


THE next morning, having breakfasted with my old friend, I went into the
stable to make the necessary preparations for my departure; there, with
the assistance of a stable lad, I cleaned and caparisoned my horse, and
then, returning into the house, I made the old female attendant such a
present as I deemed would be some compensation for the trouble I had
caused.  Hearing that the old gentleman was in his study, I repaired to
him.  “I am come to take leave of you,” said I, “and to thank you for all
the hospitality which I have received at your hands.”  The eyes of the
old man were fixed steadfastly on the inscription which I had found him
studying on a former occasion.  “At length,” he murmured to himself, “I
have it—I think I have it;” and then, looking at me, he said: “So you are
about to depart?”

“Yes,” said I; “my horse will be at the front door in a few minutes; I am
glad, however, before I go, to find that you have mastered the
inscription.”

“Yes,” said the old man, “I believe I have mastered it; it seems to
consist of some verses relating to the worship of the Spirit of the
Hearth.”

“What is the Spirit of the Hearth?” said I.

“One of the many demons which the Chinese worship,” said the old man;
“they do not worship one God, but many.”  And then the old man told me a
great many highly interesting particulars respecting the demon worship of
the Chinese.

After the lapse of at least half an hour I said: “I must not linger here
any longer, however willing.  Horncastle is distant, and I wish to be
there to-night.  Pray can you inform me what’s o’clock?”

The old man, rising, looked towards the clock which hung on the side of
the room at his left hand, on the farther side of the table at which he
was seated.

“I am rather short-sighted,” said I, “and cannot distinguish the numbers
at that distance.”

“It is ten o’clock,” said the old man; “I believe somewhat past.”

“A quarter, perhaps?”

“Yes,” said the old man, “a quarter or—”

“Or?”

“Seven minutes, or ten minutes past ten.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Why, to tell you the truth,” said the old man with a smile, “there is
one thing to the knowledge of which I could never exactly attain.”

“Do you mean to say,” said I, “that you do not know what’s o’clock?”

“I can give a guess,” said the old man, “to within a few minutes.”

“But you cannot tell the exact moment?”

“No,” said the old man.

“In the name of wonder,” said I, “with that thing there on the wall
continually ticking in your ear, how comes it that you do not know what’s
o’clock?”

“Why,” said the old man, “I have contented myself with giving a tolerably
good guess; to do more would have been too great trouble.”

“But you have learnt Chinese,” said I.

“Yes,” said the old man, “I have learnt Chinese.”

“Well,” said I, “I really would counsel you to learn to know what’s
o’clock as soon as possible.  Consider what a sad thing it would be to go
out of the world not knowing what’s o’clock.  A millionth part of the
trouble required to learn Chinese would, if employed, infallibly teach
you to know what’s o’clock.”

“I had a motive for learning Chinese,” said the old man; “the hope of
appeasing the misery in my head.  With respect to not knowing what’s
o’clock, I cannot see anything particularly sad in the matter.  A man may
get through the world very creditably without knowing what’s o’clock.
Yet, upon the whole, it is no bad thing to know what’s o’clock—you, of
course, do.  It would be too good a joke if two people were to be
together, one knowing Armenian and the other Chinese, and neither knowing
what’s o’clock.  I’ll now see you off.”




CHAPTER XXXVI.


LEAVING the house of the old man who knew Chinese, but could not tell
what was o’clock, I wended my way to Horncastle, which I reached in the
evening of the same day, without having met any adventure on the way
worthy of being marked down in this very remarkable history.

The town was a small one, seemingly ancient, and was crowded with people
and horses.  I proceeded, without delay, to the inn to which my friend
the surgeon had directed me.  “It is of no use coming here,” said two or
three ostlers, as I entered the yard—“all full—no room whatever”; whilst
one added in an undertone, “That ere a’n’t a bad-looking horse”.  “I want
to see the master of this inn,” said I, as I dismounted from the horse.
“See the master,” said an ostler—the same who had paid the negative kind
of compliment to the horse—“a likely thing, truly; my master is drinking
wine with some of the grand gentry, and can’t be disturbed for the sake
of the like of you.”  “I bring a letter to him,” said I, pulling out the
surgeon’s epistle.  “I wish you would deliver it to him,” I added,
offering a half-crown.  “Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the ostler, taking
the letter and the half-crown; “my master will be right glad to see you;
why, you ha’n’t been here for many a year; I’ll carry the note to him at
once.”  And with these words he hurried into the house.  “That’s a nice
horse, young man,” said another ostler; “what will you take for it?” to
which interrogation I made no answer.  “If you wish to sell him,” said
the ostler, coming up to me, and winking knowingly, “I think I and my
partners might offer you a summut under seventy pounds,” to which kind of
half-insinuated offer I made no reply, save by winking in the same kind
of knowing manner in which I had observed him wink.  “Rather leary!” said
a third ostler.  “Well, young man, perhaps you will drink to-night with
me and my partners, when we can talk the matter over.”  Before I had time
to answer, the landlord, a well-dressed, good-looking man, made his
appearance with the ostler; he bore the letter in his hand.  Without
glancing at me, he betook himself at once to consider the horse, going
round him and observing every point with the utmost minuteness.  At last,
after having gone round the horse three times, he stopped beside me, and
keeping his eyes on the horse, bent his head towards his right shoulder.
“That horse is worth some money,” said he, turning towards me suddenly,
and slightly touching me on the arm with the letter which he held in his
hand; to which observation I made no reply, save by bending my head
towards the right shoulder as I had seen him do.  “The young man is going
to talk to me and my partners about it to-night,” said the ostler who had
expressed an opinion that he and his friends might offer me somewhat
under seventy pounds for the animal.  “Pooh!” said the landlord, “the
young man knows what he is about; in the meantime, lead the horse to the
reserved stall, and see well after him.  My friend,” said he, taking me
aside after the ostler had led the animal away, “recommends you to me in
the strongest manner, on which account alone I take you and your horse
in.  I need not advise you not to be taken in, as I should say, by your
look, that you are tolerably awake; but there are queer hands at
Horncastle at this time, and those fellows of mine, you understand me—;
but I have a great deal to do at present, so you must excuse me.”  And
thereupon went into the house.

That same evening I was engaged at least two hours in the stable, in
rubbing the horse down, and preparing him for the exhibition which I
intended he should make in the fair on the following day.  The ostler to
whom I had given the half-crown occasionally assisted me, though he was
too much occupied by the horses of other guests to devote any length of
time to the service of mine; he more than once repeated to me his firm
conviction that himself and partners could afford to offer me summut for
the horse; and at a later hour when, in compliance with his invitation, I
took a glass of summut with himself and partners, in a little room
surrounded with corn-chests, on which we sat, both himself and partners
endeavoured to impress upon me, chiefly by means of nods and winks, their
conviction that they could afford to give me summut for the horse,
provided I were disposed to sell him; in return for which intimation,
with as many nods and winks as they had all collectively used, I
endeavoured to impress upon them my conviction that I could get summut
handsomer in the fair than they might be disposed to offer me, seeing as
how—which how I followed by a wink and a nod, which they seemed perfectly
to understand, one or two of them declaring that if the case was so it
made a great deal of difference, and that they did not wish to be any
hindrance to me, more particularly as it was quite clear I had been an
ostler like themselves.

It was late at night when I began to think of retiring to rest.  On
inquiring if there was any place in which I could sleep, I was informed
that there was a bed at my service, provided I chose to sleep in a
two-bedded room, one of the beds of which was engaged by another
gentleman.  I expressed my satisfaction at this arrangement, and was
conducted by a maid-servant up many pairs of stairs to a garret, in which
were two small beds, in one of which she gave me to understand another
gentleman slept; he had, however, not yet retired to rest; I asked who he
was, but the maid-servant could give me no information about him, save
that he was a highly respectable gentleman, and a friend of her master’s.
Presently, bidding me good-night, she left me with a candle; and I,
having undressed myself and extinguished the light, went to bed.
Notwithstanding the noises which sounded from every part of the house, I
was not slow in falling asleep, being thoroughly tired.  I know not how
long I might have been in bed, perhaps two hours, when I was partially
awakened by a light shining upon my face, whereupon, unclosing my eyes, I
perceived the figure of a man, with a candle in one hand, staring at my
face, whilst with the other hand, he held back the curtain of the bed.
As I have said before, I was only partially awakened, my power of
conception was consequently very confused; it appeared to me, however,
that the man was dressed in a green coat; that he had curly brown or
black hair, and that there was something peculiar in his look.  Just as I
was beginning to recollect myself, the curtain dropped, and I heard, or
thought I heard, a voice say: “Don’t know the cove”.  Then there was a
rustling like a person undressing, whereupon being satisfied that it was
my fellow-lodger, I dropped asleep, but was awakened again by a kind of
heavy plunge upon the other bed, which caused it to rock and creak, when
I observed that the light had been extinguished, probably blown out, if I
might judge from a rather disagreeable smell of burnt wick which remained
in the room, and which kept me awake till I heard my companion breathing
hard, when, turning on the other side, I was again once more speedily in
the arms of slumber.




CHAPTER XXXVII.


IT had been my intention to be up and doing early on the following
morning, but my slumbers proved so profound, that I did not wake until
about eight; on arising, I again found myself the sole occupant of the
apartment, my more alert companion having probably risen at a much
earlier hour.  Having dressed myself, I descended, and going to the
stable, found my horse under the hands of my friend the ostler, who was
carefully rubbing him down.  “There a’n’t a better horse in the fair,”
said he to me, “and as you are one of us, and appear to be all right,
I’ll give you a piece of advice—don’t take less than a hundred and fifty
for him; if you mind your hits, you may get it, for I have known two
hundred given in this fair for one no better, if so good.”  “Well,” said
I, “thank you for your advice, which I will take, and if successful, will
give you ‘summut’ handsome.”  “Thank you,” said the ostler; “and now let
me ask whether you are up to all the ways of this here place?”  “I have
never been here before,” said I, “but I have a pair of tolerably sharp
eyes in my head.”  “That I see you have,” said the ostler, “but many a
body, with as sharp a pair of eyes as yourn, has lost his horse in this
fair, for want of having been here before, therefore,” said he, “I’ll
give you a caution or two.”  Thereupon the ostler proceeded to give me at
least half a dozen cautions, only two of which I shall relate to the
reader: the first, not to stop to listen to what any chance customer
might have to say; and the last—the one on which he appeared to lay most
stress—by no manner of means to permit a Yorkshireman to get up into the
saddle, “for,” said he, “if you do, it is three to one that he rides off
with the horse; he can’t help it; trust a cat amongst cream, but never
trust a Yorkshireman on the saddle of a good horse; by-the-bye,” he
continued, “that saddle of yours is not a particularly good one, no more
is the bridle.  A shabby saddle and bridle have more than once spoiled
the sale of a good horse.  I tell you what, as you seem a decent kind of
a young chap, I’ll lend you a saddle and bridle of my master’s, almost
bran new; he won’t object, I know, as you are a friend of his, only you
must not forget your promise to come down with ‘summut handsome’ after
you have sold the animal.”

                    [Picture: High Street, Horncastle]

After a slight breakfast I mounted the horse, which, decked out in his
borrowed finery, really looked better by a large sum of money than on any
former occasion.  Making my way out of the yard of the inn, I was
instantly in the principal street of the town, up and down which an
immense number of horses were being exhibited, some led, and others with
riders.  “A wonderful small quantity of good horses in the fair this
time!” I heard a stout, jockey-looking individual say, who was staring up
the street with his side towards me.  “Halloo, young fellow!” said he, a
few moments after I had passed, “whose horse is that?  Stop!  I want to
look at him!”  Though confident that he was addressing himself to me, I
took no notice, remembering the advice of the ostler, and proceeded up
the street.  My horse possessed a good walking step; but walking, as the
reader knows, was not his best pace, which was the long trot, at which I
could not well exercise him in the street, on account of the crowd of men
and animals; however, as he walked along, I could easily perceive that he
attracted no slight attention amongst those, who by their jockey dress
and general appearance, I imagined to be connoisseurs; I heard various
calls to stop, to none of which I paid the slightest attention.  In a few
minutes I found myself out of the town, when, turning round for the
purpose of returning, I found I had been followed by several of the
connoisseur-looking individuals, whom I had observed in the fair.  “Now
would be the time for a display,” thought I; and looking around me I
observed two five-barred gates, one on each side of the road, and
fronting each other.  Turning my horse’s head to one, I pressed my heels
to his sides, loosened the reins, and gave an encouraging cry, whereupon
the animal cleared the gate in a twinkling.  Before he had advanced ten
yards in the field to which the gate opened, I had turned him round, and
again giving him cry and rein, I caused him to leap back again into the
road, and still allowing him head, I made him leap the other gate; and
forthwith turning him round, I caused him to leap once more into the
road, where he stood proudly tossing his head, as much as to say, “What
more?”  “A fine horse! a capital horse!” said several of the
connoisseurs.  “What do you ask for him?”  “Too much for any of you to
pay,” said I.  “A horse like this is intended for other kind of customers
than any of you.”  “How do you know that,” said one; the very same person
whom I had heard complaining in the street of the paucity of good horses
in the fair.  “Come, let us know what you ask for him?”  “A hundred and
fifty pounds,” said I; “neither more nor less.”  “Do you call that a
great price?” said the man.  “Why, I thought you would have asked double
that amount!  You do yourself injustice, young man.”  “Perhaps I do,”
said I, “but that’s my affair; I do not choose to take more.”  “I wish
you would let me get into the saddle,” said the man; “the horse knows
you, and therefore shows to more advantage; but I should like to see how
he would move under me, who am a stranger.  Will you let me get into the
saddle, young man?”  “No,” said I; “I will not let you get into the
saddle.”  “Why not?” said the man.  “Lest you should be a Yorkshireman,”
said I, “and should run away with the horse.”  “Yorkshire?” said the man;
“I am from Suffolk, silly Suffolk, so you need not be afraid of my
running away with the horse.”  “Oh! if that’s the case,” said I, “I
should be afraid that the horse would run away with you; so I will by no
means let you mount.”  “Will you let me look in his mouth?” said the man.
“If you please,” said I; “but I tell you, he’s apt to bite.”  “He can
scarcely be a worse bite than his master,” said the man, looking into the
horse’s mouth; “he’s four off.  I say, young man, will you warrant this
horse?”  “No,” said I; “I never warrant horses; the horses that I ride
can always warrant themselves.”  “I wish you would let me speak a word to
you,” said he.  “Just come aside.  It’s a nice horse,” said he in a
half-whisper, after I had ridden a few paces aside with him.  “It’s a
nice horse,” said he, placing his hand upon the pommel of the saddle, and
looking up in my face, “and I think I can find you a customer.  If you
would take a hundred, I think my lord would purchase it, for he has sent
me about the fair to look him up a horse, by which he could hope to make
an honest penny.”  “Well,” said I, “and could he not make an honest
penny, and yet give me the price I ask?”  “Why,” said the go-between, “a
hundred and fifty pounds is as much as the animal is worth, or nearly so;
and my lord, do you see—”  “I see no reason at all,” said I, “why I
should sell the animal for less than he is worth, in order that his
lordship may be benefited by him; so that if his lordship wants to make
an honest penny, he must find some person who would consider the
disadvantage of selling him a horse for less than it is worth as
counterbalanced by the honour of dealing with a lord, which I should
never do; but I can’t be wasting my time here.  I am going back to the —,
where, if you, or any person, are desirous of purchasing the horse, you
must come within the next half-hour, or I shall probably not feel
disposed to sell him at all.”  “Another word, young man,” said the
jockey, but without staying to hear what he had to say, I put the horse
to his best trot, and re-entering the town, and threading my way as well
as I could through the press, I returned to the yard of the inn, where,
dismounting, I stood still, holding the horse by the bridle.

I had been standing in this manner about five minutes, when I saw the
jockey enter the yard, accompanied by another individual.  They advanced
directly towards me.  “Here is my lord come to look at the horse, young
man,” said the jockey.  My lord, as the jockey called him, was a tall
figure, of about five-and-thirty.  He had on his head a hat somewhat
rusty, and on his back a surtout of blue rather the worse for wear.  His
forehead, if not high, was exceedingly narrow; his eyes were brown, with
a rat-like glare in them; the nose was rather long, and the mouth very
wide; the cheek-bones high, and the cheeks, as to hue and consistency,
exhibiting very much the appearance of a withered red apple; there was a
gaunt expression of hunger in the whole countenance.  He had scarcely
glanced at the horse; when drawing in his cheeks, he thrust out his lips
very much after the manner of a baboon when he sees a piece of sugar held
out towards him.  “Is this horse yours?” said he, suddenly turning
towards me, with a kind of smirk.  “It’s my horse,” said I; “are you the
person who wishes to make an honest penny by it?”  “How!” said he,
drawing up his head with a very consequential look, and speaking with a
very haughty tone; “what do you mean?”  We looked at each other full in
the face; after a few moments, the muscles of the mouth of him of the
hungry look began to move violently, the face was puckered into
innumerable wrinkles, and the eyes became half-closed.  “Well,” said I,
“have you ever seen me before?  I suppose you are asking yourself that
question.”  “Excuse me, sir,” said he, dropping his lofty look, and
speaking in a very subdued and civil tone, “I have never had the honour
of seeing you before, that is—” said he, slightly glancing at me again,
and again moving the muscles of his mouth; “no, I have never seen you
before,” he added, making me a bow, “I have never had that pleasure.  My
business with you, at present, is to inquire the lowest price you are
willing to take for this horse.  My agent here informs me that you ask
one hundred and fifty pounds, which I cannot think of giving.  The horse
is a showy horse, but look, my dear sir, he has a defect here, and there
in his near fore leg I observe something which looks very like a
splint—yes, upon my credit,” said he, touching the animal, “he has a
splint, or something which will end in one.  A hundred and fifty pounds,
sir! what could have induced you ever to ask anything like that for this
animal?  I protest that, in my time, I have frequently bought a better
for—  Who are you, sir?  I am in treaty for this horse,” said he to a man
who had come up whilst he was talking, and was now looking into the
horse’s mouth.  “Who am I?” said the man, still looking into the horse’s
mouth; “who am I? his lordship asks me.  Ah, I see, close on five,” said
he, releasing the horse’s jaws, and looking at me.  This new comer was a
thin, wiry-made individual, with wiry curling brown hair; his face was
dark, and wore an arch and somewhat roguish expression; upon one of his
eyes was a kind of speck or beam; he might be about forty, wore a green
jockey coat, and held in his hand a black riding-whip, with a knob of
silver wire.  As I gazed upon his countenance, it brought powerfully to
my mind the face which, by the light of the candle, I had seen staring
over me on the preceding night, when lying in bed and half-asleep.  Close
beside him, and seemingly in his company, stood an exceedingly tall
figure, that of a youth, seemingly about one-and-twenty, dressed in a
handsome riding-dress, and wearing on his head a singular hat, green in
colour, and with a very high peak.  “What do you ask for this horse?”
said he of the green coat, winking at me with the eye which had a beam in
it, whilst the other shone and sparkled like Mrs. Colonel W—’s Golconda
diamond.  “Who are you, sir, I demand once more?” said he of the hungry
look.  “Who am I? why, who should I be but Jack Dale, who buys horses for
himself and other folk; I want one at present for this short young
gentleman,” said he, motioning with his finger to the gigantic youth.
“Well, sir,” said the other, “and what business have you to interfere
between me and any purchase I may be disposed to make?”  “Well, then,”
said the other, “be quick and purchase the horse, or, perhaps, I may.”
“Do you think I am to be dictated to by a fellow of your description?”
said his lordship; “begone, or—”  “What do you ask for this horse?” said
the other to me, very coolly.  “A hundred and fifty,” said I.  “I
shouldn’t mind giving it to you,” said he.  “You will do no such thing,”
said his lordship, speaking so fast that he almost stuttered.  “Sir,”
said he to me, “I must give you what you ask; Symmonds, take possession
of the animal for me,” said he to the other jockey who attended him.
“You will please to do no such thing without my consent,” said I; “I have
not sold him.”  “I have this moment told you that I will give you the
price you demand,” said his lordship; “is not that sufficient?”  “No,”
said I, “there is a proper manner of doing everything; had you come
forward in a manly and gentlemanly manner to purchase the horse, I should
have been happy to sell him to you, but after all the fault you have
found with him, I would not sell him to you at any price, so send your
friend to find up another.”  “You behave in this manner, I suppose,” said
his lordship, “because this fellow has expressed a willingness to come to
your terms.  I would advise you to be cautious how you trust the animal
in his hands; I think I have seen him before and could tell you—”  “What
can you tell of me?” said the other, going up to him; “except that I have
been a poor dicky-boy, and that now I am a dealer in horses, and that my
father was lagged; that’s all you could tell of me, and that I don’t mind
telling myself: but there are two things they can’t say of me, they can’t
say that I am either a coward or a screw either, except so far as one who
gets his bread by horses may be expected to be; and they can’t say of me
that I ever ate up an ice which a young woman was waiting for, or that I
ever backed out of a fight.  Horse!” said he, motioning with his finger
tauntingly to the other, “what do you want with a horse, except to take
the bread out of the mouth of a poor man—to-morrow is not the battle of
Waterloo, so that you don’t want to back out of danger, by pretending to
have hurt yourself by falling from the creature’s back, my lord of the
white feather; come, none of your fierce looks, I am not afraid of you.”
In fact, the other had assumed an expression of the deadliest malice, his
teeth were clenched, his lips quivered, and were quite pale; the rat-like
eyes sparkled, and he made a half-spring, _à la rat_, towards his
adversary, who only laughed.  Restraining himself, however, he suddenly
turned to his understrapper, saying: “Symmonds, will you see me thus
insulted? go and trounce this scoundrel; you can, I know.”  “Symmonds
trounce me!” said the other, going up to the person addressed, and
drawing his hand contemptuously over his face; “why, I beat Symmonds in
this very yard in one round three years ago; didn’t I, Symmonds?” said he
to the understrapper, who held down his head, muttering, in a surly tone,
“I didn’t come here to fight; let every one take his own part.”  “That’s
right, Symmonds,” said the other, “especially every one from whom there
is nothing to be got.  I would give you half a crown for all the trouble
you have had, provided I were not afraid that my Lord Plume there would
get it from you as soon as you leave the yard together.  Come, take
yourselves both off; there’s nothing to be made here.”  Indeed, his
lordship seemed to be of the same opinion, for after a further glance at
the horse, a contemptuous look at me, and a scowl at the jockey, he
turned on his heel, muttering something which sounded like fellows, and
stalked out of the yard, followed by Symmonds.

“And now, young man,” said the jockey, or whatever he was, turning to me
with an arch leer, “I suppose I may consider myself as the purchaser of
this here animal, for the use and behoof of this young gentleman?” making
a sign with his head towards the tall young man by his side.  “By no
means,” said I; “I am utterly unacquainted with either of you, and before
parting with the horse, I must be satisfied as to the respectability of
the purchaser.”  “Oh! as to that matter,” said he, “I have plenty of
vouchers for my respectability about me,” and thrusting his hand into his
bosom below his waistcoat, he drew out a large bundle of notes.  “These
are the kind of things,” said he, “which vouch best for a man’s
respectability.”  “Not always,” said I; “indeed, sometimes these kind of
things need vouchers for themselves.”  The man looked at me with a
peculiar look.  “Do you mean to say that these notes are not sufficient
notes?” said he, “because if you do, I shall take the liberty of thinking
that you are not over civil, and when I thinks a person is not over and
above civil I sometimes takes off my coat, and when my coat is off—”
“You sometimes knock people down,” I added; “well, whether you knock me
down or not, I beg leave to tell you that I am a stranger in this fair,
and that I shall part with the horse to nobody who has no better
guarantee for his respectability than a roll of bank-notes, which may be
good or not for what I know, who am not a judge of such things.”  “Oh! if
you are a stranger here,” said the man, “as I believe you are, never
having seen you here before except last night, when I think I saw you
above stairs by the glimmer of a candle—I say, if you are a stranger, you
are quite right to be cautious; queer things being done in this fair, as
nobody knows better than myself,” he added with a leer; “but I suppose if
the landlord of the house vouches for me and my notes, you will have no
objection to part with the horse to me?”  “None whatever,” said I, “and
in the meantime the horse can return to the stable.”

Thereupon I delivered the horse to my friend the ostler.  The landlord of
the house on being questioned by me as to the character and condition of
my new acquaintance, informed me that he was a respectable horsedealer,
and an intimate friend of his, whereupon the purchase was soon brought to
a satisfactory conclusion.

                  [Picture: The Horse Fair, Horncastle]




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


IT was evening, and myself and the two acquaintances I had made in the
fair—namely, the jockey and the tall foreigner—sat in a large upstairs
room, which looked into a court; we had dined with several people
connected with the fair at a long _table d’hôte_; they had now departed,
and we sat at a small side-table with wine and a candle before us; both
my companions had pipes in their mouths—the jockey a common pipe, and the
foreigner one, the syphon of which, made of some kind of wood, was at
least six feet long, and the bowl of which, made of a white kind of
substance like porcelain, and capable of holding nearly an ounce of
tobacco, rested on the ground.  The jockey frequently emptied and
replenished his glass; the foreigner sometimes raised his to his lips,
for no other purpose seemingly than to moisten them, as he never drained
his glass.  As for myself, though I did not smoke, I had a glass before
me, from which I sometimes took a sip.  The room, notwithstanding the
window was flung open, was in general so filled with smoke, chiefly that
which was drawn from the huge bowl of the foreigner, that my companions
and I were frequently concealed from each other’s eyes.  The
conversation, which related entirely to the events of the fair, was
carried on by the jockey and myself, the foreigner, who appeared to
understand the greater part of what we said, occasionally putting in a
few observations in broken English.  At length the jockey, after the
other had made some ineffectual attempts to express something
intelligibly which he wished to say, observed: “Isn’t it a pity that so
fine a fellow as meinheer, and so clever a fellow too, as I believe him
to be, is not a little better master of our language?”

“Is the gentleman a German?” said I; “if so, I can interpret for him
anything he wishes to say.”

“The deuce you can,” said the jockey, taking his pipe out of his mouth,
and staring at me through the smoke.

“Ha! you speak German,” vociferated the foreigner in that language.  “By
Isten, I am glad of it!  I wanted to say—”  And here he said in German
what he wished to say, and which was of no great importance, and which I
translated into English.

“Well, if you don’t put me out,” said the jockey; “what language is
that—Dutch?”

“High Dutch,” said I.

“High Dutch, and you speak High Dutch,—why I had booked you for as great
an ignoramus as myself, who can’t write—no, nor distinguish in a book a
great A from a bull’s foot.”

“A person may be a very clever man,” said I—“no, not a clever man, for
clever signifies clerkly, and a clever man one who is able to read and
write, and entitled to the benefit of his clergy or clerkship; but a
person may be a very acute person without being able to read or write.  I
never saw a more acute countenance than your own.”

“No soft soap,” said the jockey, “for I never uses any.  However, thank
you for your information; I have hitherto thought myself a ’nition clever
fellow, but from henceforth shall consider myself just the contrary, and
only—what’s the word?—confounded ’cute.”

“Just so,” said I.

“Well,” said the jockey, “as you say you can speak High Dutch, I should
like to hear you and master six foot six fire away at each other.”

“I cannot speak German,” said I, “but I can understand tolerably well
what others say in it.”

“Come, no backing out,” said the jockey; “let’s hear you fire away for
the glory of Old England.”

“Then you are a German?” said I in German to the foreigner.

“That will do,” said the jockey, “keep it up.”

“A German!” said the tall foreigner.  “No, I thank God that I do not
belong to the stupid, sluggish Germanic race, but to a braver, taller and
handsomer people;” here taking the pipe out of his mouth, he stood up
proudly erect, so that his head nearly touched the ceiling of the room,
then reseating himself, and again putting the syphon to his lips, he
added, “I am a Magyar”.

“What is that?” said I.

The foreigner looked at me for a moment somewhat contemptuously, through
the smoke, then said, in a voice of thunder, “A Hungarian!”

“What a voice the chap has when he pleases!” interposed the jockey; “what
is he saying?”

“Merely that he is a Hungarian,” said I; but I added, “the conversation
of this gentleman and myself in a language which you can’t understand
must be very tedious to you, we had better give it up.”

“Keep on with it,” said the jockey; “I shall go on listening very
contentedly till I fall asleep, no bad thing to do at most times.”




CHAPTER XXXIX.


“THEN you are a countryman of Tekeli, and of the queen who made the
celebrated water,” said I, speaking to the Hungarian in German, which I
was able to do tolerably well owing to my having translated the
publisher’s philosophy into that language, always provided I did not
attempt to say much at a time.

_Hungarian_.  Ah! you have heard of Tekeli, and of L’eau de la Reine
d’Hongrie.  How is that?

_Myself_.  I have seen a play acted, founded on the exploits of Tekeli,
and have read Pigault Le Brun’s beautiful romance, entitled the _Barons
of Felsheim_ in which he is mentioned.  As for the water, I have heard a
lady, the wife of a master of mine, speak of it.

_Hungarian_.  Was she handsome?

_Myself_.  Very.

_Hungarian_.  Did she possess the water?

_Myself_.  I should say not; for I have heard her express a great
curiosity about it.

_Hungarian_.  Was she growing old?

_Myself_.  Of course not, but why do you put all these questions?

_Hungarian_.  Because the water is said to make people handsome, and
above all, to restore to the aged the beauty of their youth.  Well!
Tekeli was my countryman, and I have the honour of having some of the
blood of the Tekelis in my veins, but with respect to the queen, pardon
me if I tell you that she was not an Hungarian; she was a Pole—Ersebet by
name, daughter of Wladislaus Locticus King of Poland; she was the fourth
spouse of Caroly the Second, King of the Magyar country, who married her
in 1320.  She was a great woman and celebrated politician, though at
present chiefly known by her water.

_Myself_.  How came she to invent it?

_Hungarian_.  If her own account may be believed, she did not invent it.
After her death, as I have read in Florentius of Buda, there was found a
statement of the manner in which she came by it written in her own hand,
on a fly-leaf of her breviary, to the following effect: Being afflicted
with a grievous disorder at the age of seventy-two, she received the
medicine which was called her water, from an old hermit whom she never
saw before or afterwards; it not only cured her, but restored to her all
her former beauty, so that the King of Poland fell in love with her, and
made her an offer of marriage, which she refused for the glory of God,
from whose holy angel she believed she had received the water.  The
receipt for making it and directions for using it, were also found on the
fly-leaf.  The principal component parts were burnt wine and rosemary,
passed through an alembic; a drachm of it was to be taken once a week,
“_etelbenn vagy italbann_,” in the food or the drink, early in the
morning, and the cheeks were to be moistened with it every day.  The
effects, according to the statement, were wonderful—and perhaps they were
upon the queen; but whether the water has been equally efficacious on
other people, is a point which I cannot determine.  I should wish to see
some old woman who has been restored to youthful beauty by the use of
L’eau de la Reine d’Hongrie.

_Myself_.  Perhaps, if you did, the old gentlewoman would hardly be so
ingenuous as the queen.  But who are the Hungarians—descendants of Attila
and his people?

The Hungarian shook his head, and gave me to understand that he did not
believe that his nation were the descendants of Attila and his people,
though he acknowledged that they were probably of the same race.  Attila
and his armies, he said, came and disappeared in a very mysterious
manner, and that nothing could be said with positiveness about them; that
the people now known as Magyars first made their appearance in Muscovy in
the year 884, under the leadership of Almus, called so from _alom_,
which, in the Hungarian language, signifies a dream; his mother, before
his birth, having dreamt that the child with which she was _enceinte_
would be the father of a long succession of kings, which, in fact, was
the case; that after beating the Russians he entered Hungary, and coming
to a place called Ungvar, from which many people believed that modern
Hungary derived its name, he captured it, and held in it a grand
festival, which lasted four days, at the end of which time he resigned
the leadership of the Magyars to his son Arpad.  This Arpad and his
Magyars utterly subdued Pannonia—that is, Hungary and
Transylvania—wresting the government of it from the Sclavonian tribes who
inhabited it, and settling down amongst them as conquerors!  After giving
me this information, the Hungarian exclaimed with much animation: “A
goodly country that which they had entered on, consisting of a plain
surrounded by mountains, some of which intersect it here and there, with
noble rapid rivers, the grandest of which is the mighty Dunau; a country
with tiny volcanoes, casting up puffs of smoke and steam, and from which
hot springs arise, good for the sick; with many fountains, some of which
are so pleasant to the taste as to be preferred to wine; with a generous
soil which, warmed by a beautiful sun, is able to produce corn, grapes,
and even the Indian weed; in fact, one of the finest countries in the
world, which even a Spaniard would pronounce to be nearly equal to Spain.
Here they rested, meditating, however, fresh conquests.  Oh, the Magyars
soon showed themselves a mighty people.  Besides Hungary and
Transylvania, they subdued Bulgaria and Bosnia, and the land of Tot, now
called Sclavonia.  The generals of Zoltan, the son of Arpad, led troops
of horsemen to the banks of the Rhine.  One of them, at the head of a
host, besieged Constantinople.  It was then that Botond engaged in combat
with a Greek of gigantic stature, who came out of the city and challenged
the two best men in the Magyar army.  ‘I am the feeblest of the Magyars,’
said Botond, ‘but I will kill thee;’ and he performed his word, having
previously given a proof of the feebleness of his arm by striking his
battle-axe through the brazen gate, making a hole so big that a child of
five years old could walk through it.”

_Myself_.  Of what religion were the old Hungarians?

_Hungarian_.  They had some idea of a Supreme Being, whom they called
_Isten_, which word is still used by the Magyars for God; but their chief
devotion was directed to sorcerers and soothsayers, something like the
Schamans of the Siberian steppes.  They were converted to Christianity
chiefly through the instrumentality of Istvan or Stephen, called after
his death St. Istvan, who ascended the throne in the year one thousand.
He was born in heathenesse, and his original name was Vojk: he was the
first _kiraly_, or king, of the Magyars.  Their former leaders had been
called _fejedelmek_, or dukes.  The Magyar language has properly no term
either for king or house.  _Kiraly_ is a word derived from the Sclaves;
_haz_, or house, from the Germans, who first taught them to build houses,
their original dwellings having been tilted waggons.

_Myself_.  Many thanks for your account of the great men of your country.

_Hungarian_.  The great men of my country!  I have only told you of the—
Well, I acknowledge that Almus and Arpad were great men, but Hungary has
produced many greater; I will not trouble you by recapitulating all, but
there is one name I cannot forbear mentioning—but you have heard of
it—even at Horncastle the name of Hunyadi must be familiar.

_Myself_.  It may be so, though I rather doubt it; but, however that may
be, I confess my ignorance.  I have never, until this moment, heard the
name of Hunyadi.

_Hungarian_.  Not of Hunyadi Janos, not of Hunyadi John—for the genius of
our language compels us to put a man’s Christian name after his other;
perhaps you have heard of the name of Corvinus?

_Myself_.  Yes, I have heard of the name of Corvinus.

_Hungarian_.  By my God, I am glad of it; I thought our hammer of
destruction, our thunderbolt, whom the Greeks called Achilles, must be
known to the people of Horncastle.  Well, Hunyadi and Corvinus are the
same.

_Myself_.  Corvinus means the man of the crow, or raven.  I suppose that
your John, when a boy, climbed up to a crow or a raven’s nest, and stole
the young; a bold feat, well befitting a young hero.

_Hungarian_.  By Isten, you are an acute guesser; a robbery there was,
but it was not Hunyadi who robbed the raven, but the raven who robbed
Hunyadi.

_Myself_.  How was that?

_Hungarian_.  In this manner: Hunyadi, according to tradition, was the
son of King Sigmond, by a peasant’s daughter.  The king saw and fell in
love with her, whilst marching against the vaivode of Wallachia.  He had
some difficulty in persuading her to consent to his wishes, and she only
yielded at last on the king making her a solemn promise that, in the
event of her becoming with child by him, he would handsomely provide for
her and the infant.  The king proceeded on his expedition, and on his
returning in triumph from Wallachia, he again saw the girl, who informed
him that she was _enceinte_ by him; the king was delighted with the
intelligence, gave the girl money, and at the same time a ring,
requesting her, if she brought forth a son, to bring the ring to Buda
with the child, and present it to him.  When her time was up, the
peasant’s daughter brought forth a fair son, who was baptised by the name
of John.  After some time the young woman communicated the whole affair
to her elder brother, whose name was Gaspar, and begged him to convey her
and the child to the king at Buda.  The brother consented, and both set
out, taking the child with them.  On their way, the woman, wanting to
wash her clothes, laid the child down, giving it the king’s ring to play
with.  A raven, who saw the glittering ring, came flying, and plucking it
out of the child’s hand, carried it up into a tree; the child suddenly
began to cry, and the mother, hearing it, left her washing, and running
to the child, forthwith missed the ring, but hearing the raven croak in
the tree, she lifted up her eyes, and saw it with the ring in its beak.
The woman, in great terror, called her brother, and told him what had
happened, adding, that she durst not approach the king if the raven took
away the ring.  Gaspar, seizing his cross-bow and quiver, ran to the
tree, where the raven was yet with the ring, and discharged an arrow at
it, but, being in a great hurry, he missed it; with his second shot he
was more lucky, for he hit the raven in the breast, which, together with
the ring, fell to the ground.  Taking up the ring, they went on their
way, and shortly arrived at Buda.  One day, as the king was walking after
dinner in his outer hall, the woman appeared before him with the child,
and, showing him the ring, said: “Mighty lord! behold this token! and
take pity upon me and your own son”.  King Sigmond took the child and
kissed it, and, after a pause said to the mother: “You have done right in
bringing me the boy; I will take care of you, and make him a nobleman”.
The king was as good as his word; he provided for the mother, caused the
boy to be instructed in knightly exercises, and made him a present of the
town of Hunyad, in Transylvania, on which account he was afterwards
called Hunyadi, and gave him, as an armorial sign, a raven bearing a ring
in his beak.

Such, oh young man of Horncastle! is the popular account of the birth of
the great captain of Hungary, as related by Florentius of Buda.  There
are other accounts of his birth, which is, indeed, involved in much
mystery, and of the reason of his being called Corvinus, but as this is
the most pleasing, and is, upon the whole, founded on quite as good
evidence as the others, I have selected it for recitation.

_Myself_.  I heartily thank you; but you must tell me something more of
Hunyadi.  You call him your great captain; what did he do?

_Hungarian_.  Do! what no other man of his day could have done.  He broke
the power of the Turk when he was coming to overwhelm Europe.  From the
blows inflicted by Hunyadi, the Turk never thoroughly recovered; he has
been frequently worsted in latter times, but none but Hunyadi could have
routed the armies of Amurath and Mahomed the Second.

_Myself_.  How was it that he had an opportunity of displaying his
military genius?

_Hungarian_.  I can hardly tell you, but his valour soon made him famous;
King Albert made him Ban of Szorenyi.  He became eventually waivode of
Transylvania, and governor of Hungary.  His first grand action was the
defeat of Bashaw Isack; and though himself surprised and routed at St.
Imre, he speedily regained his prestige by defeating the Turks, with
enormous slaughter, killing their leader, Mezerbeg; and subsequently, at
the battle of the Iron Gates, he destroyed ninety thousand Turks, sent by
Amurath to avenge the late disgrace.  It was then that the Greeks called
him Achilles.

_Myself_.  He was not always successful.

_Hungarian_.  Who could be always successful against the early Turk?  He
was defeated in the battle in which King Vladislaus lost his life, but
his victories outnumbered his defeats three-fold.  His grandest
victory—perhaps the grandest ever achieved by man—was over the terrible
Mahomed the Second; who, after the taking of Constantinople in 1453,
said: “One God in Heaven—one king on earth”; and marched to besiege
Belgrade at the head of one hundred and fifty thousand men; swearing by
the beard of the prophet, “That he would sup within it ere two months
were elapsed”.  He brought with him dogs, to eat the bodies of the
Christians whom he should take or slay; so says Florentius; hear what he
also says: The Turk sat down before the town towards the end of June,
1454, covering the Dunau and Szava with ships: and on the 4th of July he
began to cannonade Belgrade with cannons twenty-five feet long, whose
roar could be heard at Szeged, a distance of twenty-four leagues, at
which place Hunyadi had assembled his forces.  Hunyadi had been able to
raise only fifteen thousand of well-armed and disciplined men, though he
had with him vast bands of people, who called themselves Soldiers of the
Cross, but who consisted of inexperienced lads from school, peasants and
hermits, armed with swords, slings and clubs.  Hunyadi, undismayed by the
great disparity between his forces and those of the Turk, advanced to
relieve Belgrade, and encamped at Szalankemen with his army.  There he
saw at once that his first step must be to attack the flotilla; he
therefore privately informed Szilagy, his wife’s brother, who at that
time defended Belgrade, that it was his intention to attack the ships of
the Turks on the 14th day of July in front, and requested his
co-operation in the rear.  On the 14th came on the commencement of the
great battle of Belgrade, between Hunyadi and the Turk.  Many days it
lasted.

_Myself_.  Describe it.

_Hungarian_.  I cannot.  One has described it well—Florentius of Buda.  I
can only repeat a few of his words: “On the appointed day, Hunyadi, with
two hundred vessels, attacked the Turkish flotilla in front, whilst
Szilagy, with forty vessels, filled with the men of Belgrade, assailed it
in the rear; striving for the same object, they sunk many of the Turkish
vessels, captured seventy-four, burnt many, and utterly annihilated the
whole fleet.  After this victory, Hunyadi, with his army entered
Belgrade, to the great joy of the Magyars.  But though the force of
Mahomed upon the water was destroyed, that upon the land remained entire;
and with this, during six days and nights, he attacked the city without
intermission, destroying its walls in many parts.  His last and most
desperate assault was made on the 21st day of July.  Twice did the Turks
gain possession of the outer town, and twice was it retaken with
indescribable slaughter.  The next day the combat raged without ceasing
till midday, when the Turks were again beaten out of the town, and
pursued by the Magyars to their camp.  There the combat was renewed, both
sides displaying the greatest obstinacy until Mahomed received a great
wound over his left eye.  The Turks then, turning their faces, fled,
leaving behind them three hundred cannon in the hands of the Christians,
and more than twenty-four thousand slain on the field of battle.”

_Myself_.  After that battle, I suppose Hunyadi enjoyed his triumphs in
peace?

_Hungarian_.  In the deepest, for he shortly died.  His great soul
quitted his body, which was exhausted by almost superhuman exertions, on
the 11th of August, 1456.  Shortly before he died, according to
Florentius, a comet appeared, sent, as it would seem, to announce his
coming end.  The whole Christian world mourned his loss.  The Pope
ordered the cardinals to perform a funeral ceremony at Rome in his
honour.  His great enemy himself grieved for him, and pronounced his
finest eulogium.  When Mahomed the Second heard of his death, he struck
his head for some time against the ground without speaking.  Suddenly he
broke silence with these words: “Notwithstanding he was my enemy, yet do
I bewail his loss; since the sun has shone in heaven, no Prince had ever
yet such a man”.

_Myself_.  What was the name of his Prince?

_Hungarian_.  Laszlo the Fifth; who, though under infinite obligations to
Hunyadi, was anything but grateful to him; for he once consented to a
plan which was laid to assassinate him, contrived by his mortal enemy
Ulrik, Count of Cilejia; and after Hunyadi’s death, caused his eldest son
Hunyadi Laszlo, to be executed on a false accusation, and imprisoned his
younger son, Matyas, who, on the death of Laszlo, was elected by the
Magyars to be their king, on the 24th of January, 1458.

_Myself_.  Was this Matyas a good king?

_Hungarian_.  Was Matyas Corvinus a good king?  O young man of
Horncastle! he was the best and greatest that Hungary ever possessed,
and, after his father, the most renowned warrior—some of our best laws
were framed by him.  It was he who organised the Hussar force, and it was
he who took Vienna.  Why does your Government always send fools to
represent it at Vienna?

_Myself_.  I really cannot say; but with respect to the Hussar force, is
it of Hungarian origin?

_Hungarian_.  Its name shows its origin.  _Huz_, in Hungarian, is twenty
and the Hussar force is so called because it is formed of twentieths.  A
law was issued by which it was ordered that every Hungarian nobleman, out
of every twenty dependants, should produce a well-equipped horseman, and
with him proceed to the field of battle.

_Myself_.  Why did Matyas capture Vienna?

_Hungarian_.  Because the Emperor Frederick took part against him with
the King of Poland, who claimed the kingdom of Hungary for his son, and
had also assisted the Turk.  He captured it in the year 1487, but did not
survive his triumph long, expiring there in the year 1490.  He was so
veracious a man, that it was said of him, after his death, “Truth died
with Matyas”.  It might be added that the glory of Hungary departed with
him.  I wish to say nothing more connected with Hungarian history.

_Myself_.  Another word.  Did Matyas leave a son?

_Hungarian_.  A natural son, Hunyadi John, called so after the great man.
He would have been universally acknowledged as King of Hungary but for
the illegitimacy of his birth.  As it was, Ulaszlo, the son of the King
of Poland, afterwards called Ulaszlo the Second, who claimed Hungary as
being descended from Albert, was nominated king by a great majority of
the Magyar electors.  Hunyadi John for some time disputed the throne with
him; there was some bloodshed, but Hunyadi John eventually submitted, and
became the faithful captain of Ulaszlo, notwithstanding that the Turk
offered to assist him with an army of two hundred thousand men.

_Myself_.  Go on.

_Hungarian_.  To what?  Tché Drak, to the _Mohacs Veszedelem_.  Ulaszlo
left a son, Lajos the Second, born without skin, as it is said; certainly
without a head.  He, contrary to the advice of all his wise
counsellors,—and amongst them was Batory Stephen, who became eventually
King of Poland—engaged, with twenty-five thousand men, at Mohacs, Soliman
the Turk, who had an army of two hundred thousand.  Drak! the Magyars
were annihilated, King Lajos disappeared with his heavy horse and armour
in a bog.  We call that battle, which was fought on the 29th of August,
1526, the destruction of Mohacs, but it was the destruction of Hungary.

_Myself_.  You have twice used the word _drak_, what is the meaning of
it?  Is it Hungarian?

_Hungarian_.  No! it belongs to the mad Wallacks.  They are a nation of
madmen on the other side of Transylvania.  Their country was formerly a
fief of Hungary, like Moldavia, which is inhabited by the same race, who
speak the same language and are equally mad.

_Myself_.  What language do they speak?

_Hungarian_.  A strange mixture of Latin and Sclavonian—they themselves
being a mixed race of Romans and Sclavonians.  Trajan sent certain
legions to form military colonies in Dacia; and the present Wallacks and
Moldavians are, to a certain extent, the descendants of the Roman
soldiers, who married the women of the country.  I say to a certain
extent, for the Sclavonian element both in blood and language seems to
prevail.

_Myself_.  And what is _drak_?

_Hungarian_.  Dragon; which the Wallacks use for “devil”.  The term is
curious, as it shows that the old Romans looked upon the dragon as an
infernal being.

_Myself_.  You have been in Wallachia?

_Hungarian_.  I have, and glad I was to get out of it.  I hate the mad
Wallacks.

_Myself_.  Why do you call them mad?

_Hungarian_.  They are always drinking or talking.  I never saw a
Wallachian eating or silent.  They talk like madmen, and drink like
madmen.  In drinking they use small phials, the contents of which they
pour down their throats.  When I first went amongst them I thought the
whole nation was under a course of physic, but the terrible jabber of
their tongues soon undeceived me.  _Drak_ was the first word I heard on
entering Dacia, and the last when I left it.  The Moldaves, if possible,
drink more, and talk more than the Wallachians.

_Myself_.  It is singular enough that the only Moldavian I have known
could not speak.  I suppose he was born dumb.

_Hungarian_.  A Moldavian born dumb!  Excuse me, the thing is
impossible,—all Moldavians are born talking!  I have known a Moldavian
who could not speak, but he was not born dumb.  His master, an Armenian,
snipped off part of his tongue at Adrianople.  He drove him mad with his
jabber.  He is now in London, where his master has a house.  I have
letters of credit on the house: the clerk paid me money in London, the
master was absent; the money which you received for the horse belonged to
that house.

_Myself_.  Another word with respect to Hungarian history.

_Hungarian_.  Drak!  I wish to say nothing more about Hungarian history.

_Myself_.  The Turk, I suppose, after Mohacs, got possession of Hungary?

_Hungarian_.  Not exactly.  The Turk, upon the whole, showed great
moderation; not so the Austrian.  Ferdinand the First claimed the crown
of Hungary as being the cousin of Maria, widow of Lajos; he found too
many disposed to support him.  His claim, however, was resisted by
Zapolya John, a Hungarian magnate, who caused himself to be elected king.
Hungary was for a long time devastated by wars between the partisans of
Zapolya and Ferdinand.  At last Zapolya called in the Turk.  Soliman
behaved generously to him, and after his death befriended his young son,
and Isabella his queen; eventually the Turks became masters of
Transylvania and the greater part of Hungary.  They were not bad masters,
and had many friends in Hungary, especially amongst those of the reformed
faith, to which I have myself the honour of belonging; those of the
reformed faith found the Mufti more tolerant than the Pope.  Many
Hungarians went with the Turks to the siege of Vienna, whilst Tekeli and
his horsemen guarded Hungary for them.  A gallant enterprise that siege
of Vienna, the last great effort of the Turk; it failed and he speedily
lost Hungary, but he did not sneak from Hungary like a frightened hound.
His defence of Buda will not be soon forgotten, where Apty Basha, the
governor, died fighting like a lion in the breach.  There’s many a
Hungarian would prefer Stamboul to Vienna.  Why does your Government
always send fools to represent it at Vienna?

_Myself_.  I have already told you that I cannot say.  What became of
Tekeli?

_Hungarian_.  When Hungary was lost he retired with the Turks into
Turkey.  Count Renoncourt, in his _Memoirs_, mentions having seen him at
Adrianople.  The Sultan, in consideration of the services which he had
rendered to the Moslem in Hungary, made over the revenues of certain
towns and districts for his subsistence.  The count says that he always
went armed to the teeth, and was always attended by a young female
dressed in male attire, who had followed him in his wars, and had more
than once saved his life.  His end is wrapped in mystery, I—whose
greatest boast, next to being a Hungarian, is to be of his blood—know
nothing of his end.

_Myself_.  Allow me to ask who you are?

_Hungarian_.  _Egy szegeny Magyar Nemes ember_, a poor Hungarian
nobleman, son of one yet poorer.  I was born in Transylvania, not far to
the west of good Coloscvar.  I served some time in the Austrian army as a
noble Hussar, but am now equerry to a great nobleman, to whom I am
distantly related.  In his service I have travelled far and wide, buying
horses.  I have been in Russia and in Turkey, and am now at Horncastle,
where I have had the satisfaction to meet with you, and to buy your
horse, which is, in truth, a noble brute.

_Myself_.  For a soldier and equerry you seem to know a great deal of the
history of your country.

_Hungarian_.  All I know is derived from Florentius of Buda, whom we call
Budai Ferentz.  He was professor of Greek and Latin at the Reformed
College of Debreczen, where I was educated; he wrote a work entitled
_Magyar Polgari Lexicon_, Lives of Great Hungarian Citizens.  He was dead
before I was born, but I found his book, when I was a child, in the
solitary home of my father, which stood on the confines of a _puszta_, or
wilderness, and that book I used to devour in winter nights when the
winds were whistling around the house.  Oh! how my blood used to glow at
the descriptions of Magyar valour, and likewise of Turkish; for
Florentius has always done justice to the Turk.  Many a passage similar
to this have I got by heart; it is connected with a battle on the plain
of Rigo, which Hunyadi lost: “The next day, which was Friday, as the two
armies were drawn up in battle array, a Magyar hero, riding forth,
galloped up and down, challenging the Turks to single combat.  Then came
out to meet him the son of a renowned bashaw of Asia; rushing upon each
other, both broke their lances, but the Magyar hero and his horse rolled
over upon the ground, for the Turks had always the best horses.”  O young
man of Horncastle! if ever you learn Hungarian—and learn it assuredly you
will after what I have told you—read the book of Florentius of Buda, even
if you go to Hungary to get it, for you will scarcely find it elsewhere,
and even there with difficulty, for the book has been long out of print.
It describes the actions of the great men of Hungary down to the middle
of the sixteenth century; and besides being written in the purest
Hungarian, has the merit of having for its author a professor of the
Reformed College at Debreczen.

_Myself_.  I will go to Hungary rather than not read it.  I am glad that
the Turk beat the Magyar.  When I used to read the ballads of Spain I
always sided with the Moor against the Christian.

_Hungarian_.  It was a drawn fight after all, for the terrible horse of
the Turk presently flung his own master, whereupon the two champions
returned to their respective armies; but in the grand conflict which
ensued, the Turks beat the Magyars, pursuing them till night, and
striking them on the necks with their scimitars.  The Turk is a noble
fellow; I should wish to be a Turk, were I not a Magyar.

_Myself_.  The Turk always keeps his word, I am told.

_Hungarian_.  Which the Christian very seldom does, and even the
Hungarian does not always.  In 1444 Ulaszlo made, at Szeged, peace with
Amurath for ten years, which he swore with an oath to keep, but at the
instigation of the Pope Julian he broke it, and induced his great
captain, Hunyadi John, to share in the perjury.  The consequence was the
battle of Varna, of the 10th of November, in which Hunyadi was routed,
and Ulaszlo slain.  Did you ever hear his epitaph? it is both solemn and
edifying:—

    Romulidæ Cannas ego Varnam clade notavi;
    Discite mortales non temerare fidem:
    Me nisi Pontifices jussissent rumpere fœdus
    Non ferret Scythicum Pannonis ora jugum.

“Halloo!” said the jockey, starting up from a doze in which he had been
indulging for the last hour, his head leaning upon his breast, “what is
that?  That’s not High Dutch; I bargained for High Dutch, and I left you
speaking what I believed to be High Dutch, as it sounded very much like
the language of horses, as I have been told High Dutch does; but as for
what you are speaking now, whatever you may call it, it sounds more like
the language of another kind of animal.  I suppose you want to insult me,
because I was once a dicky-boy.”

“Nothing of the kind,” said I; “the gentleman was making a quotation in
Latin.”

“Latin, was it?” said the jockey; “that alters the case.  Latin is
genteel, and I have sent my eldest boy to an academy to learn it.  Come,
let us hear you fire away in Latin,” he continued, proceeding to relight
his pipe, which, before going to sleep, he had laid on the table.

“If you wish to follow the discourse in Latin,” said the Hungarian, in
very bad English, “I can oblige you; I learned to speak very good Latin
in the college of Debreczen.”

“That’s more,” said I, “than I have done in the colleges where I have
been; in any little conversation which we may yet have, I wish you would
use German.”

“Well,” said the jockey, taking a whiff, “make your conversation as short
as possible, whether in Latin or Dutch, for, to tell you the truth, I am
rather tired of merely playing listener.”

“You were saying you had been in Russia,” said I; “I believe the Russians
are part of the Sclavonian race.”

_Hungarian_.  Yes, part of the great Sclavonian family; one of the most
numerous races in the world.  The Russians themselves are very numerous;
would that the Magyars could boast of the fifth part of their number!

_Myself_.  What is the number of the Magyars?

_Hungarian_.  Barely four millions.  We came a tribe of Tartars into
Europe, and settled down amongst Sclavonians, whom we conquered, but who
never coalesced with us.  The Austrian at present plays in Pannonia the
Sclavonian against us, and us against the Sclavonian; but the downfall of
the Austrian is at hand; they, like us, are not a numerous people.

_Myself_.  Who will bring about his downfall?

_Hungarian_.  The Russians.  The Rysckie Tsar will lead his people forth,
all the Sclavonians will join him, he will conquer all before him.

_Myself_.  Are the Russians good soldiers?

_Hungarian_.  They are stubborn and unflinching to an astonishing degree,
and their fidelity to their Tsar is quite admirable.  See how the
Russians behaved at Plescova, in Livonia, in the old time, against our
great Batory Stephen; they defended the place till it was a heap of
rubbish, and mark how they behaved after they had been made prisoners.
Stephen offered them two alternatives: to enter into his service, in
which they would have good pay, clothing and fair treatment; or to be
allowed to return to Russia.  Without the slightest hesitation they, to a
man, chose the latter, though well aware that their beloved Tsar, the
cruel Ivan Basilowits, would put them all to death, amidst tortures the
most horrible, for not doing what was impossible—preserving the town.

_Myself_.  You speak Russian?

_Hungarian_.  A little.  I was born in the vicinity of a Sclavonian
tribe; the servants of our house were Sclavonians, and I early acquired
something of their language, which differs not much from that of Russia;
when in that country I quickly understood what was said.

_Myself_.  Have the Russians any literature?

_Hungarian_.  Doubtless; but I am not acquainted with it, as I do not
read their language; but I know something of their popular tales, to
which I used to listen in their _izbushkas_; a principal personage in
these is a creation quite original—called Baba Yaga.

_Myself_.  Who is Baba Yaga?

_Hungarian_.  A female phantom, who is described as hurrying along the
_puszta_, or steppe, in a mortar, pounding with a pestle at a tremendous
rate, and leaving a long trace on the ground behind her with her tongue,
which is three yards long, and with which she seizes any men and horses
coming in her way, swallowing them down into her capacious belly.  She
has several daughters, very handsome, and with plenty of money; happy the
young Mujik who catches and marries one of them, for they make excellent
wives.

“Many thanks,” said I, “for the information you have afforded me: this is
rather poor wine,” I observed, as I poured out a glass; “I suppose you
have better wine in Hungary?”

“Yes, we have better wine in Hungary.  First of all there is Tokay, the
most celebrated in the world, though I confess I prefer the wine of
Eger—Tokay is too sweet.”

“Have you ever been at Tokay?”

“I have,” said the Hungarian.

“What kind of place is Tokay?”

“A small town situated on the Tyzza, a rapid river descending from the
north; the Tokay Mountain is just behind the town, which stands on the
right bank.  The top of the mountain is called Kopacs Teto, or the bald
tip; the hill is so steep that during thunderstorms pieces of it
frequently fall down upon the roofs of the houses.  It was planted with
vines by King Lajos, who ascended the throne in the year 1342.  The best
wine called Tokay is, however, not made at Tokay, but at Kassau, two
leagues farther into the Carpathians, of which Tokay is a spur.  If you
wish to drink the best Tokay, you must go to Vienna, to which place all
the prime is sent.  For the third time I ask you, O young man of
Horncastle! why does your Government always send fools to represent it at
Vienna?”

“And for the third time I tell you, O son of Almus! that I cannot say;
perhaps, however, to drink the sweet Tokay wine; fools, you know, always
like sweet things.”

“Good,” said the Hungarian; “it must be so, and when I return to Hungary,
I will state to my countrymen your explanation of a circumstance which
has frequently caused them great perplexity.  Oh! the English are a
clever people, and have a deep meaning in all they do.  What a vision of
deep policy opens itself to my view! they do not send their fool to
Vienna in order to gape at processions, and to bow and scrape at a base
<DW7> court, but to drink at the great dinners the celebrated Tokay of
Hungary, which the Hungarians, though they do not drink it, are very
proud of, and by doing so to intimate the sympathy which the English
entertain for their fellow religionists of Hungary.  Oh! the English are
a deep people.”




CHAPTER XL.


THE pipe of the Hungarian had, for some time past, exhibited considerable
symptoms of exhaustion, little or no ruttling having been heard in the
tube, and scarcely a particle of smoke, drawn through the syphon, having
been emitted from the lips of the possessor.  He now rose from his seat,
and going to a corner of the room, placed his pipe against the wall, then
striding up and down the room, he cracked his fingers several times,
exclaiming, in a half-musing manner: “Oh, the deep nation, which, in
order to display its sympathy for Hungary, sends its fool to Vienna, to
drink the sweet wine of Tokay!”

The jockey, having looked for some time at the tall figure with evident
approbation, winked at me with that brilliant eye of his on which there
was no speck, saying: “Did you ever see a taller fellow?”

“Never,” said I.

“Or a finer?”

“That’s another question,” said I, “which I am not so willing to answer;
however, as I am fond of truth, and scorn to flatter, I will take the
liberty of saying that I have seen a finer.”

“A finer! where?” said the jockey; whilst the Hungarian, who appeared to
understand what we said, stood still, and looked full at me.

“Amongst a strange set of people,” said I, “whom, if I were to name, you
would, I daresay, only laugh at me.”

“Who be they?” said the jockey.  “Come, don’t be ashamed; I have
occasionally kept queerish company myself.”

“The people whom we call gypsies,” said I; “whom the Germans call
Zigeuner, and who call themselves Romany chals.”

“Zigeuner!” said the Hungarian; “by Isten!  I do know those people.”

“Romany chals!” said the jockey; “whew!  I begin to smell a rat.”

“What do you mean by smelling a rat?” said I.

“I’ll bet a crown,” said the jockey, “that you be the young chap what
certain folks call ‘the Romany Rye’.”

“Ah!” said I, “how came you to know that name?”

“Be not you he?” said the jockey.

“Why, I certainly have been called by that name.”

“I could have sworn it,” said the jockey; then rising from his chair, he
laid his pipe on the table, took a large hand-bell which stood on the
sideboard, and going to the door, opened it, and commenced ringing in a
most tremendous manner on the staircase.  The noise presently brought up
a waiter, to whom the jockey vociferated, “Go to your master, and tell
him to send immediately three bottles of champagne, of the pink kind,
mind you, which is twelve guineas a dozen”; the waiter hurried away, and
the jockey resumed his seat and his pipe.  I sat in silent astonishment
until the waiter returned with a basket containing the wine, which, with
three long glasses, he placed on the table.  The jockey then got up, and
going to a large bow window at the end of the room, which looked into a
courtyard, peeped out; then saying, “the coast is clear,” he shut down
the principal sash which was open for the sake of the air, and taking up
a bottle of champagne, he placed another in the hands of the Hungarian,
to whom he said something in private.  The latter, who seemed to
understand him, answered by a nod.  The two then going to the end of the
table fronting the window, and about eight paces from it, stood before
it, holding the bottles by their necks; suddenly the jockey lifted up his
arm.  “Surely,” said I, “you are not mad enough to fling that bottle
through the window?”  “Here’s to the Romany Rye; here’s to the sweet
master,” said the jockey, dashing the bottle through a pane in so neat a
manner that scarcely a particle of glass fell into the room.

“_Eljen edes csigany ur—eljen gul eray_!” said the Hungarian, swinging
round his bottle, and discharging it at the window; but, either not
possessing the jockey’s accuracy of aim, or reckless of consequences, he
flung his bottle so, that it struck against part of the wooden setting of
the panes, breaking along with the wood and itself three or four panes to
pieces.  The crash was horrid, and wine and particles of glass flew back
into the room, to the no small danger of its inmates.  “What do you think
of that?” said the jockey; “were you ever so honoured before?”
“Honoured!” said I.  “God preserve me in future from such honour;” and I
put my finger to my cheek, which was slightly hurt by a particle of the
glass.  “That’s the way we of the cofrady honour great men at
Horncastle,” said the jockey.  “What, you are hurt! never mind; all the
better; your scratch shows that you are the body the compliment was paid
to.”  “And what are you going to do with the other bottle?” said I.  “Do
with it!” said the jockey, “why, drink it, cosily and comfortably, whilst
holding a little quiet talk.  The Romany Rye at Horncastle, what an
idea!”

“And what will the master of the house say to all this damage which you
have caused him!”

“What will your master say, William?” said the jockey to the waiter, who
had witnessed the singular scene just described without exhibiting the
slightest mark of surprise.  William smiled, and slightly shrugging his
shoulders, replied: “Very little, I dare say, sir; this a’n’t the first
time your honour has done a thing of this kind”.  “Nor will it be the
first time that I shall have paid for it,” said the jockey; “well, I
shall never have paid for a certain item in the bill with more pleasure
than I shall pay for it now.  Come, William, draw the cork, and let us
taste the pink champagne.”

The waiter drew the cork, and filled the glasses with a pinky liquor,
which bubbled, hissed and foamed.  “How do you like it?” said the jockey,
after I had imitated the example of my companions, by despatching my
portion at a draught.

“It is wonderful wine,” said I; “I have never tasted champagne before,
though I have frequently heard it praised; it more than answers my
expectations; but, I confess, I should not wish to be obliged to drink it
every day.”

“Nor I,” said the jockey, “for everyday drinking give me a glass of old
port, or—”

“Of hard old ale,” I interposed, “which, according to my mind, is better
than all the wine in the world.”

“Well said, Romany Rye,” said the jockey, “just my own opinion; now,
William, make yourself scarce.”

The waiter withdrew, and I said to the jockey: “How did you become
acquainted with the Romany chals?”

“I first became acquainted with them,” said the jockey, “when I lived
with old Fulcher the basketmaker, who took me up when I was adrift upon
the world; I do not mean the present Fulcher, who is likewise called old
Fulcher, but his father, who has been dead this many a year; while living
with him in the caravan, I frequently met them in the green lanes, and of
latter years I have had occasional dealings with them in the horse line.”

“And the gypsies have mentioned me to you?” said I.

“Frequently,” said the jockey, “and not only those of these parts; why,
there’s scarcely a part of England in which I have not heard the name of
the Romany Rye mentioned by these people.  The power you have over them
is wonderful; that is, I should have thought it wonderful, had they not
more than once told me the cause.”

“And what is the cause?” said I, “for I am sure I do not know.”

“The cause is this,” said the jockey, “they never heard a bad word
proceed from your mouth, and never knew you do a bad thing.”

“They are a singular people,” said I.

“And what a singular language they have got,” said the jockey.

“Do you know it?” said I.

“Only a few words,” said the jockey; “they were always chary in teaching
me any.”

“They were vary sherry to me to,” said the Hungarian, speaking in broken
English; “I only could learn from them half a dozen words, for example,
_gul eray_, which, in the czigany of my country, means sweet gentleman,
or _edes ur_ in my own Magyar.”

“Gudlo Rye, in the Romany of mine, means a sugar’d gentleman,” said I;
“then there are gypsies in your country?”

“Plenty,” said the Hungarian, speaking German, “and in Russia and Turkey
too; and wherever they are found, they are alike in their ways and
language.  Oh, they are a strange race, and how little known!  I know
little of them, but enough to say that one horse-load of nonsense has
been written about them; there is one Valter Scott—”

“Mind what you say about him,” said I; “he is our grand authority in
matters of philology and history.”

“A pretty philologist,” said the Hungarian, “who makes the gypsies speak
Roth-Welsch, the dialect of thieves; a pretty historian, who couples
together Thor and Tzernebock.”

“Where does he do that?” said I.

“In his conceited romance of _Ivanhoe_, he couples Thor and Tzernebock
together, and calls them gods of the heathen Saxons.”

“Well,” said I, “Thur or Thor was certainly a god of the heathen Saxons.”

“True,” said the Hungarian; “but why couple him with Tzernebock?
Tzernebock was a word which your Valter had picked up somewhere without
knowing the meaning.  Tzernebock was no god of the Saxons, but one of the
gods of the Sclaves, on the southern side of the Baltic.  The Sclaves had
two grand gods to whom they sacrificed, Tzernebock and Bielebock; that
is, the black and white gods, who represented the powers of dark and
light.  They were overturned by Waldemar, the Dane, the great enemy of
the Sclaves; the account of whose wars you will find in one fine old
book, written by Saxo Gramaticus, which I read in the library of the
college of Debreczen.  The Sclaves, at one time, were masters of all the
southern shore of the Baltic, where their descendants are still to be
found, though they have lost their language, and call themselves Germans;
but the word Zernevitz near Dantzic, still attests that the Sclavic
language was once common in those parts.  Zernevitz means the thing of
blackness, as Tzernebock means the god of blackness.  Prussia itself
merely means, in Sclavish, Lower Russia.  There is scarcely a race or
language in the world more extended than the Sclavic.  On the other side
of the Dunau you will find the Sclaves and their language.  Czernavoda is
Sclavic, and means black water; in Turkish, _kara su_; even as Tzernebock
means black god; and Belgrade, or Belograd, means the white town, even as
Bielebock, or Bielebog, means the white god.  Oh! he is one great
ignorant, that Valter.  He is going, they say, to write one history about
Napoleon.  I do hope that in his history he will couple his Thor and
Tzernebock together.  By my God! it would be good diversion that.”

“Walter Scott appears to be no particular favourite of yours,” said I.

“He is not,” said the Hungarian; “I hate him for his slavish principles.
He wishes to see absolute power restored in this country, and Popery
also—and I hate him because—what do you think?  In one of his novels,
published a few months ago, he has the insolence to insult Hungary in the
person of one of her sons.  He makes his great braggart, Cœur de Lion,
fling a Magyar over his head.  Ha! it was well for Richard that he never
felt the gripe of a Hungarian.  I wish the braggart could have felt the
grip of me, who am ‘_a’ magyarok közt legkissebb_,’ the least among the
Magyars.  I do hate that Scott, and all his vile gang of Lowlanders and
Highlanders.  The black corps, the _fekete_ regiment of Matyas Hunyadi,
was worth all the Scots, high or low, that ever pretended to be soldiers;
and would have sent them all headlong into the Black Sea, had they dared
to confront it on its shores; but why be angry with an ignorant, who
couples together Thor and Tzernebock?  Ha! Ha!”

“You have read his novels?” said I.

“Yes, I read them now and then.  I do not speak much English, but I can
read it well, and I have read some of his romances and mean to read his
_Napoleon_, in the hope of finding Thor and Tzernebock coupled together
in it, as in his high-flying _Ivanhoe_.”

“Come,” said the jockey, “no more Dutch, whether high or low.  I am tired
of it; unless we can have some English, I am off to bed.”

“I should be very glad to hear some English,” said I, “especially from
your mouth.  Several things which you have mentioned, have awakened my
curiosity.  Suppose you give us your history?”

“My history?” said the jockey.  “A rum idea! however, less conversation
should lag, I’ll give it you.  First of all, however, a glass of
champagne to each.”

After we had each taken a glass of champagne, the jockey commenced his
history.




CHAPTER XLI.


“MY grandfather was a shorter, and my father was a smasher; the one was
scragg’d, and the other lagg’d.”

I here interrupted the jockey by observing that his discourse was, for
the greater part, unintelligible to me.

“I do not understand much English,” said the Hungarian, who, having
replenished and resumed his mighty pipe, was now smoking away; “but, by
Isten, I believe it is the gibberish which that great ignorant Valter
Scott puts into the mouth of the folks he calls gypsies.”

“Something like it, I confess,” said I, “though this sounds more genuine
than his dialect, which he picked up out of the canting vocabulary at the
end of the _English Rogue_, a book which, however despised, was written
by a remarkable genius.  What do you call the speech you were using?”
said I, addressing myself to the jockey.

“Latin,” said the jockey very coolly; “that is, that dialect of it which
is used by the light-fingered gentry.”

“He is right,” said the Hungarian; “it is what the Germans call
Roth-Welsch: they call it so because there are a great many Latin words
in it, introduced by the priests, who, at the time of the Reformation,
being too lazy to work and too stupid to preach, joined the bands of
thieves and robbers who prowled about the country.  Italy, as you are
aware, is called by the Germans Welschland, or the land of the Welschers;
and I may add that Wallachia derives its name from a colony of Welschers
which Trajan sent there.  Welsch and Wallack being one and the same word,
and tantamount to Latin.”

“I dare say you are right,” said I; “but why was Italy termed
Welschland?”

“I do not know,” said the Hungarian.

“Then I think I can tell you,” said I; “it was called so because the
original inhabitants were a Cimbric tribe, who were called Gwyltiad, that
is, a race of wild people, living in coverts, who were of the same blood,
and spoke the same language as the present inhabitants of Wales.  Welsh
seems merely a modification of Gwyltiad.  Pray, continue your history,”
said I to the jockey, “only please to do so in a language which we can
understand, and first of all interpret the sentence with which you began
it.”

“I told you that my grandfather was a shorter,” said the jockey, “by
which is meant a gentleman who shortens or reduces the current coin of
these realms, for which practice he was scragged, that is, hung by the
scrag of the neck.  And when I said that my father was a smasher, I meant
one who passes forged notes, thereby doing his best to smash the Bank of
England; by being lagged, I meant he was laid fast, that is, had a chain
put round his leg and then transported.”

“Your explanations are perfectly satisfactory,” said I; “the three first
words are metaphorical, and the fourth, lagged, is the old genuine Norse
term, lagda, which signifies laid, whether in durance, or in bed, has
nothing to do with the matter.  What you have told me confirms me in an
opinion which I have long entertained, that thieves’ Latin is a strange,
mysterious speech, formed of metaphorical terms, and words derived from
various ancient languages.  Pray, tell me, now, how the gentleman, your
grandfather, contrived to shorten the coin of these realms?”

“You shall hear,” said the jockey; “but I have one thing to beg of you,
which is, that when I have once begun my history you will not interrupt
me with questions.  I don’t like them, they stops one, and puts one out
of one’s tale, and are not wanted; for anything which I think can’t be
understood, I should myself explain, without being asked.  My grandfather
reduced or shortened the coin of this country by three processes: by
aquafortis, by clipping and by filing.  Filing and clipping he employed
in reducing all kinds of coin, whether gold or silver; but aquafortis he
used merely in reducing gold coin, whether guineas, jacobuses or Portugal
pieces, otherwise called moidores, which were at one time as current as
guineas.  By laying a guinea in aquafortis for twelve hours, he could
filch from it to the value of ninepence, and by letting it remain there
for twenty-four to the value of eighteenpence, the aquafortis eating the
gold away, and leaving it like a sediment in the vessel.  He was
generally satisfied with taking the value of ninepence from a guinea, of
eighteenpence from a jacobus or moidore, or half a crown from a broad
Spanish piece, whether he reduced them by aquafortis, filing or clipping.
From a five-shilling piece, which is called a bull in Latin, because it
is round like a bull’s head, he would file or clip to the value of
fivepence, and from lesser coin in proportion.  He was connected with a
numerous gang, or set, of people, who had given up their minds and
talents entirely to shortening.”

Here I interrupted the jockey.  “How singular,” said I, “is the fall and
debasement of words; you talk of a gang, or set, of shorters; you are,
perhaps, not aware that gang and set were, a thousand years ago, only
connected with the great and Divine; they are ancient Norse words, which
may be found in the heroic poems of the north, and in the Edda, a
collection of mythologic and heroic songs.  In these poems we read that
such and such a king invaded Norway with a gang of heroes; or so and so,
for example, Erik Bloodaxe, was admitted to the set of gods; but at
present gang and set are merely applied to the vilest of the vile, and
the lowest of the low,—we say a gang of thieves and shorters, or a set of
authors.  How touching is this debasement of words in the course of time;
it puts me in mind of the decay of old houses and names.  I have known a
Mortimer who was a hedger and ditcher, a Berners who was born in a
workhouse, and a descendant of the De Burghs, who bore the falcon,
mending old kettles, and making horse and pony shoes in a dingle.”

“Odd enough,” said the jockey; “but you were saying you knew one
Berners—man or woman?  I would ask.”

“A woman,” said I.

“What might her Christian name be?” said the jockey.

“It is not to be mentioned lightly,” said I with a sigh.

“I shouldn’t wonder if it were Isopel,” said the jockey with an arch
glance of his one brilliant eye.

“It was Isopel,” said I; “did you know Isopel Berners?”

“Aye, and have reason to know her,” said the jockey, putting his hand
into his left waistcoat pocket, as if to feel for something, “for she
gave me what I believe few men could do—a most confounded whopping.  But
now, Mr. Romany Rye, I have again to tell you that I don’t like to be
interrupted when I’m speaking, and to add that if you break in upon me a
third time, you and I shall quarrel.”

“Pray, proceed with your story,” said I; “I will not interrupt you
again.”

“Good!” said the jockey.  “Where was I?  Oh, with a set of people who had
given up their minds to shortening!  Reducing the coin, though rather a
lucrative, was a very dangerous trade.  Coin filed felt rough to the
touch; coin clipped could be easily detected by the eye; and as for coin
reduced by aquafortis, it was generally so discoloured that, unless a
great deal of pains was used to polish it, people were apt to stare at it
in a strange manner, and to say: ‘What have they been doing to this here
gold?’  My grandfather, as I said before, was connected with a gang of
shorters, and sometimes shortened money, and at other times passed off
what had been shortened by other gentry.

“Passing off what had been shortened by others was his ruin; for once, in
trying to pass off a broad piece which had been laid in aquafortis for
four-and-twenty hours, and was very black, not having been properly
rectified, he was stopped and searched, and other reduced coins being
found about him, and in his lodgings, he was committed to prison, tried
and executed.  He was offered his life, provided he would betray his
comrades; but he told the big-wigs, who wanted him to do so, that he
would see them farther first, and died at Tyburn, amidst the cheers of
the populace, leaving my grandmother and father, to whom he had always
been a kind husband and parent—for, setting aside the crime for which he
suffered, he was a moral man—leaving them, I say, to bewail his
irreparable loss.

“’Tis said that misfortune never comes alone; this is, however, not
always the case.  Shortly after my grandfather’s misfortune, as my
grandmother and her son were living in great misery in Spitalfields, her
only relation—a brother from whom she had been estranged some years, on
account of her marriage with my grandfather, who had been in an inferior
station to herself—died, leaving all his property to her and the child.
This property consisted of a farm of about a hundred acres, with its
stock, and some money besides.  My grandmother, who knew something of
business, instantly went into the country, where she farmed the property
for her own benefit and that of her son, to whom she gave an education
suitable to a person in his condition, till he was old enough to manage
the farm himself.  Shortly after the young man came of age, my
grandmother died, and my father, in about a year, married the daughter of
a farmer, from whom he expected some little fortune, but who very much
deceived him, becoming a bankrupt almost immediately after the marriage
of his daughter, and himself and family going to the workhouse.

“My mother, however, made my father an excellent wife; and if my father
in the long run did not do well it was no fault of hers.  My father was
not a bad man by nature; he was of an easy, generous temper—the most
unfortunate temper, by-the-bye, for success in this life that any person
can be possessed of, as those who have it are almost sure to be made
dupes of by the designing.  But, though easy and generous, he was
anything but a fool; he had a quick and witty tongue of his own when he
chose to exert it, and woe be to those who insulted him openly, for there
was not a better boxer in the whole country round.  My parents were
married several years before I came into the world, who was their first
and only child.  I may be called an unfortunate creature; I was born with
this beam or scale on my left eye, which does not allow me to see with
it; and though I can see tolerably sharply with the other, indeed more
than most people can with both of theirs, it is a great misfortune not to
have two eyes like other people.  Moreover, setting aside the affair of
my eye, I had a very ugly countenance, my mouth being slightly wrung
aside, and my complexion rather swarthy.  In fact, I looked so queer that
the gossips and neighbours, when they first saw me, swore I was a
changeling—perhaps it would have been well if I had never been born; for
my poor father, who had been particularly anxious to have a son, no
sooner saw me than he turned away, went to the neighbouring town, and did
not return for two days.  I am by no means certain that I was not the
cause of his ruin, for till I came into the world he was fond of his
home, and attended much to business, but afterwards he went frequently
into company and did not seem to care much about his affairs: he was,
however, a kind man, and when his wife gave him advice never struck her,
nor do I ever remember that he kicked me when I came in his way, or so
much as cursed my ugly face, though it was easy to see that he didn’t
over-like me.  When I was six years old I was sent to the village school,
where I was soon booked for a dunce, because the master found it
impossible to teach me either to read or write.  Before I had been at
school two years, however, I had beaten boys four years older than
myself, and could fling a stone with my left hand (for if I am right-eyed
I am left-handed) higher and farther than any one in the parish.
Moreover, no boy could equal me at riding, and no people ride so well or
desperately as boys.  I could ride a donkey—a thing far more difficult to
ride than a horse—at full galop over hedges and ditches, seated, or
rather floating upon his hinder part; so, though anything but clever, as
this here Romany Rye would say, I was yet able to do things which few
other people could do.  By the time I was ten my father’s affairs had got
into a very desperate condition, for he had taken to gambling and
horse-racing, and, being unsuccessful, had sold his stock, mortgaged his
estate, and incurred very serious debts.  The upshot was, that within a
little time all he had was seized, himself imprisoned, and my mother and
myself put into a cottage belonging to the parish, which, being very cold
and damp, was the cause of her catching a fever, which speedily carried
her off.  I was then bound apprentice to a farmer, in whose service I
underwent much coarse treatment, cold and hunger.

“After lying in prison near two years, my father was liberated by an Act
for the benefit of insolvent debtors; he was then lost sight of for some
time; at last, however, he made his appearance in the neighbourhood
dressed like a gentleman, and seemingly possessed of plenty of money.  He
came to see me, took me into a field, and asked me how I was getting on.
I told him I was dreadfully used, and begged him to take me away with
him; he refused, and told me to be satisfied with my condition, for that
he could do nothing for me.  I had a great love for my father, and
likewise a great admiration for him on account of his character as a
boxer, the only character which boys in general regard, so I wished much
to be with him, independently of the dog’s life I was leading where I
was; I therefore said if he would not take me with him, I would follow
him; he replied that I must do no such thing, for that if I did, it would
be my ruin.  I asked him what he meant, but he made no reply, only saying
that he would go and speak to the farmer.  Then taking me with him, he
went to the farmer, and in a very civil manner said that he understood I
had not been very kindly treated by him, but he hoped that in future I
should be used better.  The farmer answered in a surly tone, that I had
been only too well treated, for that I was a worthless young scoundrel;
high words ensued, and the farmer, forgetting the kind of man he had to
deal with, checked him with my grandsire’s misfortune, and said he
deserved to be hanged like his father.  In a moment my father knocked him
down, and on his getting up, gave him a terrible beating, then taking me
by the hand he hastened away; as we were going down a lane he said we
were now both done for.  ‘I don’t care a straw for that, father,’ said I,
‘provided I be with you.’  My father took me to the neighbouring town,
and going into the yard of a small inn, he ordered out a pony and light
cart which belonged to him, then paying his bill, he told me to mount
upon the seat, and getting up drove away like lightning; we drove for at
least six hours without stopping, till we came to a cottage by the side
of a heath; we put the pony and cart into a shed, and went into the
cottage, my father unlocking the door with a key which he took out of his
pocket; there was nobody in the cottage when we arrived, but shortly
after there came a man and woman, and then some more people, and by ten
o’clock at night there were a dozen of us in the cottage.  The people
were companions of my father.  My father began talking to them in Latin,
but I did not understand much of the discourse, though I believe it was
about myself, as their eyes were frequently turned to me.  Some
objections appeared to be made to what he said; however, all at last
seemed to be settled, and we all sat down to some food.  After that, all
the people got up and went away, with the exception of the woman, who
remained with my father and me.  The next day my father also departed,
leaving me with the woman, telling me before he went that she would teach
me some things which it behoved me to know.  I remained with her in the
cottage upwards of a week; several of those who had been there coming and
going.  The woman, after making me take an oath to be faithful, told me
that the people whom I had seen were a gang who got their livelihood by
passing forged notes, and that my father was a principal man amongst
them, adding that I must do my best to assist them.  I was a poor
ignorant child at that time, and I made no objection, thinking that
whatever my father did must be right; the woman then gave me some
instructions in the smasher’s dialect of the Latin language.  I made
great progress, because, for the first time in my life, I paid great
attention to my lessons.  At last my father returned, and, after some
conversation with the woman, took me away in his cart.  I shall be very
short about what happened to my father and myself during two years.  My
father did his best to smash the Bank of England by passing forged notes,
and I did my best to assist him.  We attended races and fairs in all
kinds of disguises; my father was a first-rate hand at a disguise, and
could appear of all ages, from twenty to fourscore; he was, however,
grabbed at last.  He had said, as I have told you, that he should be my
ruin, but I was the cause of his, and all owing to the misfortune of this
here eye of mine.  We came to this very place of Horncastle, where my
father purchased two horses of a young man, paying for them with three
forged notes purporting to be Bank of Englanders of fifty pounds each,
and got the young man to change another of the like amount; he at that
time appeared as a respectable dealer and I as his son, as I really was.

“As soon as we had got the horses we conveyed them to one of the places
of call belonging to our gang, of which there were several.  There they
were delivered into the hands of one of our companions, who speedily sold
them in a distant part of the country.  The sum which they fetched—for
the gang kept very regular accounts—formed an important item on the next
day of sharing, of which there were twelve in the year.  The young man,
whom my father had paid for the horses with his smashing notes, was soon
in trouble about them, and ran some risk, as I heard, of being executed;
but he bore a good character, told a plain story, and, above all, had
friends, and was admitted to bail; to one of his friends he described my
father and myself.  This person happened to be at an inn in Yorkshire,
where my father, disguised as a Quaker, attempted to pass a forged note.
The note was shown to this individual, who pronounced it a forgery, it
being exactly similar to those for which the young man had been in
trouble, and which he had seen.  My father, however, being supposed a
respectable man, because he was dressed as a Quaker—the very reason,
by-the-bye why anybody who knew aught of the Quakers would have suspected
him to be a rogue—would have been let go, had I not made my appearance,
dressed as his footboy.  The friend of the young man looked at my eye,
and seized hold of my father, who made a desperate resistance, I
assisting him as in duty bound.  Being, however, overpowered by numbers,
he bade me by a look, and a word or two in Latin, to make myself scarce.
Though my heart was fit to break, I obeyed my father, who was speedily
committed.  I followed him to the county town in which he was lodged,
where shortly after I saw him tried, convicted and condemned.  I then,
having made friends with the jailor’s wife, visited him in his cell,
where I found him very much cast down.  He said, that my mother had
appeared to him in a dream, and talked to him about a resurrection and
Christ Jesus; there was a Bible before him, and he told me the chaplain
had just been praying with him.  He reproached himself much, saying, he
was afraid he had been my ruin, by teaching me bad habits.  I told him
not to say any such thing, for that I had been the cause of his, owing to
the misfortune of my eye.  He begged me to give over all unlawful
pursuits, saying, that if persisted in, they were sure of bringing a
person to destruction.  I advised him to try and make his escape,
proposing that when the turnkey came to let me out, he should knock him
down, and fight his way out, offering to assist him, showing him a small
saw, with which one of our companions, who was in the neighbourhood, had
provided me, and with which he could have cut through his fetters in five
minutes; but he told me he had no wish to escape, and was quite willing
to die.  I was rather hard at that time; I am not very soft now; and I
felt rather ashamed of my father’s want of what I called spirit.  He was
not executed after all; for the chaplain, who was connected with a great
family, stood his friend and got his sentence commuted, as they call it,
to transportation; and in order to make the matter easy, he induced my
father to make some valuable disclosures with respect to the smashers’
system.  I confess that I would have been hanged before I would have done
so, after having reaped the profit of it; that is, I think so now, seated
comfortably in my inn, with my bottle of champagne before me.  He,
however, did not show himself carrion; he would not betray his
companions, who had behaved very handsomely to him, having given the son
of a lord, a great barrister, not a hundred-pound forged bill, but a
hundred hard guineas, to plead his cause, and another ten, to induce him,
after pleading, to put his hand to his breast, and say that, upon his
honour, he believed the prisoner at the bar to be an honest and injured
man.  No; I am glad to be able to say, that my father did not show
himself exactly carrion, though I could almost have wished he had let
himself—  However, I am here with my bottle of champagne and the Romany
Rye, and he was in his cell, with bread and water and the prison
chaplain.  He took an affectionate leave of me before he was sent away,
giving me three out of five guineas, all the money he had left.  He was a
kind man, but not exactly fitted to fill my grandfather’s shoes.  I
afterwards learned that he died of fever, as he was being carried across
the sea.

“During the ’sizes I had made acquaintance with old Fulcher.  I was in
the town on my father’s account, and he was there on his son’s, who,
having committed a small larceny, was in trouble.  Young Fulcher,
however, unlike my father, got off, though he did not give the son of a
lord a hundred guineas to speak for him, and ten more to pledge his
sacred honour for his honesty, but gave Counsellor P— one-and-twenty
shillings to defend him, who so frightened the principal evidence, a
plain honest farming-man, that he flatly contradicted what he had first
said, and at last acknowledged himself to be all the rogues in the world,
and, amongst other things, a perjured villain.  Old Fulcher, before he
left the town with his son,—and here it will be well to say that he and
his son left it in a kind of triumph, the base drummer of a militia
regiment, to whom they had given half a crown, beating his drum before
them—old Fulcher I say, asked me to go and visit him, telling me where,
at such a time, I might find him and his caravan and family; offering, if
I thought fit, to teach me basket-making: so, after my father had been
sent off, I went and found up old Fulcher, and became his apprentice in
the basket-making line.  I stayed with him till the time of his death,
which happened in about three months, travelling about with him and his
family, and living in green lanes, where we saw gypsies and trampers, and
all kinds of strange characters.  Old Fulcher, besides being an
industrious basket-maker, was an out and out thief, as was also his son,
and, indeed, every member of his family.  They used to make baskets
during the day, and thieve during a great part of the night.  I had not
been with them twelve hours, before old Fulcher told me that I must
thieve as well as the rest.  I demurred at first, for I remembered the
fate of my father, and what he had told me about leaving off bad courses,
but soon allowed myself to be over-persuaded, more especially as the
first robbery I was asked to do was a fruit robbery.  I was to go with
young Fulcher, and steal some fine Morell cherries, which grew against a
wall in a gentleman’s garden; so young Fulcher and I went and stole the
cherries, one half of which we ate, and gave the rest to the old man, who
sold them to a fruiterer ten miles off from the place where we had stolen
them.  The next night old Fulcher took me out with himself.  He was a
great thief, though in a small way.  He used to say, that they were
fools, who did not always manage to keep the rope below their shoulders,
by which he meant, that it was not advisable to commit a robbery, or do
anything which could bring you to the gallows.  He was all for petty
larceny, and knew where to put his hand upon any little thing in England,
which it was possible to steal.  I submit it to the better judgment of
the Romany Rye, who I see is a great hand for words and names, whether he
ought not to have been called old Filcher, instead of Fulcher.  I shan’t
give a regular account of the larcenies which he committed during the
short time I knew him, either alone by himself, or with me and his son.
I shall merely relate the last:—

“A melancholy gentleman, who lived a very solitary life, had a large carp
in a shady pond in a meadow close to his house; he was exceedingly fond
of it, and used to feed it with his own hand, the creature being so tame
that it would put its snout out of the water to be fed when it was
whistled to; feeding and looking at his carp were the only pleasures the
poor melancholy gentleman possessed.  Old Fulcher—being in the
neighbourhood, and having an order from a fishmonger for a large fish,
which was wanted at a great city dinner, at which His Majesty was to be
present—swore he would steal the carp, and asked me to go with him.  I
had heard of the gentleman’s fondness for his creature, and begged him to
let it be, advising him to go and steal some other fish; but old Fulcher
swore, and said he would have the carp, although its master should hang
himself; I told him he might go by himself, but he took his son and stole
the carp, which weighed seventeen pounds.  Old Fulcher got thirty
shillings for the carp, which I afterwards heard was much admired and
relished by His Majesty.  The master, however, of the carp, on losing his
favourite, became more melancholy than ever, and in a little time hanged
himself.  ‘What’s sport for one, is death to another,’ I once heard at
the village school read out of a copy-book.

“This was the last larceny old Fulcher ever committed.  He could keep his
neck always out of the noose, but he could not always keep his leg out of
the trap.  A few nights after, having removed to a distance, he went to
an osier car in order to steal some osiers for his basket-making, for he
never bought any.  I followed a little way behind.  Old Fulcher had
frequently stolen osiers out of the car, whilst in the neighbourhood, but
during his absence the property, of which the car was a part, had been
let to a young gentleman, a great hand for preserving game.  Old Fulcher
had not got far into the car before he put his foot into a man-trap.
Hearing old Fulcher shriek, I ran up, and found him in a dreadful
condition.  Putting a large stick which I carried into the jaws of the
trap, I contrived to prize them open, and get old Fulcher’s leg out, but
the leg was broken.  So I ran to the caravan, and told young Fulcher of
what had happened, and he and I went and helped his father home.  A
doctor was sent for, who said it was necessary to take the leg off, but
old Fulcher, being very much afraid of pain, said it should not be taken
off, and the doctor went away, but after some days, old Fulcher becoming
worse, ordered the doctor to be sent for, who came and took off his leg,
but it was then too late, mortification had come on, and in a little time
old Fulcher died.

“Thus perished old Fulcher; he was succeeded in his business by his son,
young Fulcher, who, immediately after the death of his father, was called
old Fulcher, it being our English custom to call everybody old, as soon
as their fathers are buried; young Fulcher—I mean he who had been called
young, but was now old Fulcher—wanted me to go out and commit larcenies
with him; but I told him that I would have nothing more to do with
thieving, having seen the ill effects of it, and that I should leave them
in the morning.  Old Fulcher begged me to think better of it, and his
mother joined with him.  They offered, if I would stay, to give me Mary
Fulcher as a mort, till she and I were old enough to be regularly
married, she being the daughter of the one, and the sister of the other.
I liked the girl very well, for she had always been civil to me, and had
a fair complexion and nice red hair, both of which I like, being a bit of
a black myself; but I refused, being determined to see something more of
the world than I could hope to do with the Fulchers, and moreover, to
live honestly, which I could never do along with them.  So the next
morning I left them: I was, as I said before, quite determined upon an
honest livelihood, and I soon found one.  He is a great fool who is ever
dishonest in England.  Any person who has any natural gift, and everybody
has some natural gift, is sure of finding encouragement in this noble
country of ours, provided he will but exhibit it.  I had not walked more
than three miles before I came to a wonderfully high church steeple,
which stood close by the road; I looked at the steeple, and going to a
heap of smooth pebbles which lay by the roadside, I took up some, and
then went into the churchyard, and placing myself just below the tower,
my right foot resting on a ledge, about two feet from the ground, I, with
my left hand—being a left-handed person, do you see—flung or chucked up a
stone, which lighting on the top of the steeple, which was at least a
hundred and fifty feet high, did there remain.  After repeating this feat
two or three times, I ‘hulled’ up a stone, which went clean over the
tower, and then one, my right foot still on the ledge, which rising at
least five yards above the steeple, did fall down just at my feet.
Without knowing it, I was showing off my gift to others besides myself,
doing what, perhaps, not five men in England could do.  Two men, who were
passing by, stopped and looked at my proceedings, and when I had done
flinging came into the churchyard, and, after paying me a compliment on
what they had seen me do, proposed that I should join company with them;
I asked them who they were, and they told me.  The one was Hopping Ned,
and the other Biting Giles.  Both had their gifts, by which they got
their livelihood; Ned could hop a hundred yards with any man in England,
and Giles could lift up with his teeth any dresser or kitchen table in
the country, and, standing erect, hold it dangling in his jaws.  There’s
many a big oak table and dresser in certain districts of England, which
bear the marks of Giles’s teeth; and I make no doubt that, a hundred or
two years hence, there’ll be strange stories about those marks, and that
people will point them out as a proof that there were giants in bygone
time, and that many a dentist will moralise on the decays which human
teeth have undergone.

“They wanted me to go about with them, and exhibit my gift occasionally
as they did theirs, promising that the money that was got by the
exhibitions should be honestly divided.  I consented, and we set off
together, and that evening coming to a village, and putting up at the
ale-house, all the grand folks of the village being there smoking their
pipes, we contrived to introduce the subject of hopping—the upshot being
that Ned hopped against the school-master for a pound, and beat him
hollow; shortly after, Giles, for a wager, took up the kitchen table in
his jaws, though he had to pay a shilling to the landlady for the marks
he left, whose grandchildren will perhaps get money by exhibiting them.
As for myself, I did nothing that day, but the next, on which my
companions did nothing, I showed off at hulling stones against a <DW36>,
the crack man for stone throwing, of a small town, a few miles farther
on.  Bets were made to the tune of some pounds; I contrived to beat the
<DW36>, and just contrived; for to do him justice, I must acknowledge he
was a first-rate hand at stones, though he had a game hip, and went
sideways; his head, when he walked—if his movements could be called
walking—not being above three feet above the ground.  So we travelled, I
and my companions, showing off our gifts, Giles and I occasionally for a
gathering, but Ned never hopping unless against somebody for a wager.  We
lived honestly and comfortably, making no little money by our natural
endowments, and were known over a great part of England as ‘Hopping Ned,’
‘Biting Giles,’ and ‘Hull over the Head Jack,’ which was my name, it
being the blackguard fashion of the English, do you see, to—”

Here I interrupted the jockey.  “You may call it a blackguard fashion,”
said I, “and I dare say it is, or it would scarcely be English; but it is
an immensely ancient one, and is handed down to us from our northern
ancestry, especially the Danes, who were in the habit of giving people
surnames, or rather nicknames, from some quality of body or mind, but
generally from some disadvantageous peculiarity of feature; for there is
no denying that the English, Norse, or whatever we may please to call
them, are an envious, depreciatory set of people, who not only give their
poor comrades contemptuous surnames, but their great people also.  They
didn’t call you the matchless Hurler, because, by doing so, they would
have paid you a compliment, but Hull-over-the-Head Jack, as much as to
say that after all you were a scrub: so, in ancient time, instead of
calling Regner the great conqueror, the Nation Tamer, they surnamed him
Lodbrog, which signifies Rough or Hairy Breeks—lod or loddin signifying
rough or hairy; and instead of complimenting Halgerdr, the wife of Gunnar
of Hlitharend, the great champion of Iceland, upon her majestic presence,
by calling her Halgerdr, the stately or tall, what must they do but term
her Ha-brokr, or High-breeks, it being the fashion in old times for
Northern ladies to wear breeks, or breeches, which English ladies of the
present day never think of doing; and just, as of old, they called
Halgerdr Long-breeks, so this very day a fellow of Horncastle called, in
my hearing, our noble-looking Hungarian friend here, Long-stockings.  Oh,
I could give you a hundred instances, both ancient and modern, of this
unseemly propensity of our illustrious race, though I will only trouble
you with a few more ancient ones; they not only nicknamed Regner, but his
sons also, who were all kings, and distinguished men; one, whose name was
Biorn, they nicknamed Ironsides; another, Sigurd, Snake in the Eye;
another, White Sark, or White Shirt—I wonder they did not call him Dirty
Shirt; and Ivarr, another, who was king of Northumberland, they called
Beinlausi, or the Legless, because he was spindle-shanked, had no sap in
his bones, and consequently no children.  He was a great king, it is
true, and very wise, nevertheless his blackguard countrymen, always
averse, as their descendants are, to give credit to anybody, for any
valuable quality or possession, must needs lay hold, do you see—”

But before I could say any more, the jockey, having laid down his pipe,
rose, and having taken off his coat, advanced towards me.




CHAPTER XLII.


THE jockey, having taken off his coat and advanced towards me, as I have
stated in the preceding chapter, exclaimed, in an angry tone: “This is
the third time you have interrupted me in my tale, Mr. Rye; I passed over
the two first times with a simple warning, but you will now please to get
up and give me the satisfaction of a man”.

“I am really sorry,” said I, “if I have given you offence, but you were
talking of our English habit of bestowing nicknames, and I could not
refrain from giving a few examples tending to prove what a very ancient
habit it is.”

“But you interrupted me,” said the jockey, “and put me out of my tale,
which you had no right to do; and as for your examples, how do you know
that I wasn’t going to give some as old or older than yourn?  Now, stand
up, and I’ll make an example of you.”

“Well,” said I, “I confess it was wrong in me to interrupt you, and I ask
your pardon.”

“That won’t do,” said the jockey, “asking pardon won’t do.”

“Oh,” said I, getting up, “if asking pardon does not satisfy you, you are
a different man from what I considered you.”

But here the Hungarian, also getting up, interposed his tall form and
pipe between us, saying in English, scarcely intelligible, “Let there be
no dispute!  As for myself, I am very much obliged to the young man of
Horncastle for his interruption, though he has told me that one of his
dirty townsmen called me ‘Longstockings’.  By Isten! there is more
learning in what he has just said than in all the _verdammt_ English
histories of Thor and Tzernebock I ever read.”

“I care nothing for his learning,” said the jockey.  “I consider myself
as good a man as he, for all his learning; so stand out of the way, Mr.
Sixfoot-eleven or—”

“I shall do no such thing,” said the Hungarian.  “I wonder you are not
ashamed of yourself.  You ask a young man to drink champagne with you,
you make him dronk, he interrupt you with very good sense; he ask your
pardon, yet you not—”

“Well,” said the jockey, “I am satisfied.  I am rather a short-tempered
person, but I bear no malice.  He is, as you say, drinking my wine, and
has perhaps taken a drop too much, not being used to such high liquor;
but one doesn’t like to be put out of one’s tale, more especially when
one was about to moralise, do you see, oneself, and to show off what
little learning one has.  However, I bears no malice.  Here is a hand to
each of you; we’ll take another glass each, and think no more about it.”

The jockey having shaken both of our hands, and filled our glasses and
his own with what champagne remained in the bottle, put on his coat, sat
down, and resumed his pipe and story.

“Where was I?  Oh, roaming about the country with Hopping Ned and Biting
Giles.  Those were happy days, and a merry and prosperous life we led.
However, nothing continues under the sun in the same state in which it
begins, and our firm was soon destined to undergo a change.  We came to a
village where there was a very high church steeple, and in a little time
my comrades induced a crowd of people to go and see me display my gift by
flinging stones above the heads of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, who
stood at the four corners on the top, carved in stone.  The parson,
seeing the crowd, came waddling out of his rectory to see what was going
on.  After I had flung up the stones, letting them fall just where I
liked—and one, I remember fell on the head of Mark, where I daresay it
remains to the present day—the parson, who was one of the description of
people called philosophers, held up his hand, and asked me to let the
next stone I flung up fall into it.  He wished, do you see, to know with
what weight the stone would fall down, and talked something about
gravitation—a word which I could never understand to the present day,
save that it turned out a grave matter to me.  I, like a silly fellow
myself, must needs consent, and, flinging the stone up to a vast height,
contrived so that it fell into the parson’s hand, which it cut
dreadfully.  The parson flew into a great rage, more particularly as
everybody laughed at him, and, being a magistrate, ordered his clerk, who
was likewise constable, to conduct me to prison as a rogue and vagabond,
telling my comrades that if they did not take themselves off, he would
serve them in the same manner.  So Ned hopped off, and Giles ran after
him, without making any gathering, and I was led to Bridewell, my
mittimus following at the end of a week, the parson’s hand not permitting
him to write before that time.  In the Bridewell I remained a month,
when, being dismissed, I went in quest of my companions, whom, after some
time, I found up, but they refused to keep my company any longer, telling
me that I was a dangerous character, likely to bring them more trouble
than profit; they had, moreover, filled up my place.  Going into a
cottage to ask for a drink of water, they saw a country fellow making
faces to amuse his children; the faces were so wonderful that Hopping Ned
and Biting Giles at once proposed taking him into partnership, and the
man—who was a fellow not very fond of work—after a little entreaty, went
away with them.  I saw him exhibit his gift, and couldn’t blame the
others for preferring him to me; he was a proper ugly fellow at all
times, but when he made faces his countenance was like nothing human.  He
was called Ugly Moses.  I was so amazed at his faces, that though poor
myself I gave him sixpence, which I have never grudged to this day, for I
never saw anything like them.  The firm throve wonderfully after he had
been admitted into it.  He died some little time ago, keeper of a
public-house, which he had been enabled to take from the profits of his
faces.  A son of his, one of the children he was making faces to when my
comrades entered his door, is at present a barrister, and a very rising
one.  He has his gift—he has not, it is true, the gift of the gab, but he
has something better, he was born with a grin on his face, a quiet grin;
he would not have done to grin through a collar like his father, and
would never have been taken up by Hopping Ned and Biting Giles, but that
grin of his caused him to be noticed by a much greater person than
either; an attorney observing it took a liking to the lad, and prophesied
that he would some day be heard of in the world; and in order to give him
the first lift, took him into his office, at first to light fires and do
such kind of work, and after a little time taught him to write, then
promoted him to a desk, articled him afterwards, and being unmarried, and
without children, left him what he had when he died.  The young fellow,
after practising at the law some time, went to the bar, where, in a few
years, helped on by his grin, for he had nothing else to recommend him,
he became, as I said before, a rising barrister.  He comes our circuit,
and I occasionally employ him, when I am obliged to go to law about such
a thing as an unsound horse.  He generally brings me through—or rather
that grin of his does—and yet I don’t like the fellow, confound him, but
I’m an oddity—no, the one I like, and whom I generally employ, is a
fellow quite different, a bluff sturdy dog, with no grin on his face but
with a look which seems to say I am an honest man, and what cares I for
anyone?  And an honest man he is, and something more.  I have known coves
with a better gift of the gab, though not many, but he always speaks to
the purpose, and understands law thoroughly; and that’s not all.  When at
college, for he has been at college, he carried off everything before him
as a Latiner, and was first-rate at a game they call matthew mattocks.  I
don’t know exactly what it is, but I have heard that he who is first-rate
at matthew mattocks is thought more of than if he were first-rate
Latiner.

“Well, the chap that I’m talking about, not only came out first-rate
Latiner, but first-rate at matthew mattocks too, doing, in fact, as I am
told by those who knows, for I was never at college myself, what no one
had ever done before.  Well, he makes his appearance at our circuit, does
very well, of course, but he has a somewhat high front, as becomes an
honest man, and one who has beat every one at Latin and matthew mattocks;
and who can speak first-rate law and sense; but see now, the cove with
the grin, who has like myself never been at college, knows nothing of
Latin, or matthew mattocks, and has no particular gift of the gab, has
two briefs for his one, and I suppose very properly, for that grin of his
curries favour with the juries; and mark me, that grin of his will enable
him to beat the other in the long run.  We all know what all barrister
coves looks forward to—a seat on the hop sack.  Well, I’ll bet a bull to
fivepence that the grinner gets upon it, and the snarler doesn’t; at any
rate, that he gets there first.  I calls my cove—for he is my cove—a
snarler; because your first-rates at matthew mattocks are called
snarlers, and for no other reason; for the chap, though with a high
front, is a good chap, and once drank a glass of ale with me, after
buying an animal out of my stable.  I have often thought it a pity he
wasn’t born with a grin on his face like the son of Ugly _Moses_.  It is
true he would scarcely then have been an out and outer at Latin and
matthew mattocks, but what need of either to a chap born with a grin?
Talk of being born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth! give me a cove
born with a grin on his face—a much better endowment.

“I will now shorten my history as much as I can, for we have talked as
much as folks do during a whole night in the Commons’ House, though, of
course, not with so much learning, or so much to the purpose,
because—why?  They are in the House of Commons, and we in a public room
of an inn at Horncastle.  The goodness of the ale, do ye see, never
depending on what it is made of, oh, no! but on the fashion and
appearance of the jug in which it is served up.  After being turned out
of the firm, I got my living in two or three honest ways, which I shall
not trouble you with describing.  I did not like any of them, however, as
they did not exactly suit my humour; at last I found one which did.  One
Saturday forenoon, I chanced to be in the cattle-market of a place about
eighty miles from here; there I won the favour of an old gentleman who
sold dickeys.  He had a very shabby squad of animals, without soul or
spirit; nobody would buy them, till I leaped upon their hinder ends, and
by merely wriggling in a particular manner, made them caper and bound so
to people’s liking, that in a few hours every one of them was sold at
very sufficient prices.  The old gentleman was so pleased with my skill,
that he took me home with him, and in a very little time into
partnership.  It’s a good thing to have a gift, but yet better to have
two.  I might have got a very decent livelihood by throwing stones, but I
much question whether I should ever have attained to the position in
society which I now occupy, but for my knowledge of animals.  I lived
very comfortably with the old gentleman till he died, which he did about
a fortnight after he had laid his old lady in the ground.  Having no
children, he left me what should remain after he had been buried
decently, and the remainder was six dickeys and thirty shillings in
silver.  I remained in the dickey trade ten years, during which time I
saved a hundred pounds.  I then embarked in the horse line.  One day,
being in the — market on a Saturday, I saw Mary Fulcher with a halter
round her neck, led about by a man, who offered to sell her for
eighteenpence.  I took out the money forthwith and bought her; the man
was her husband, a basket-maker, with whom she had lived several years
without having any children; he was a drunken, quarrelsome fellow, and
having had a dispute with her the day before, he determined to get rid of
her, by putting a halter round her neck and leading her to the
cattle-market, as if she were a mare, which he had, it seems, a right to
do, all women being considered mares by old English law, and, indeed
still called mares in certain counties, where genuine old English is
still preserved.  That same afternoon, the man who had been her husband,
having got drunk in a public-house, with the money which he had received
for her, quarrelled with another man, and receiving a blow under the ear,
fell upon the floor, and died of artiflex; and in less than three weeks I
was married to Mary Fulcher, by virtue of regular banns.  I am told she
was legally my property by virtue of my having bought her with a halter
round her neck; but, to tell you the truth, I think everybody should live
by his trade, and I didn’t wish to act shabbily towards our parson, who
is a good fellow, and has certainly a right to his fees.  A better wife
than Mary Fulcher—I mean Mary Dale—no one ever had; she has borne me
several children, and has at all times shown a willingness to oblige me,
and to be my faithful wife.  Amongst other things, I begged her to have
done with her family, and I believe she has never spoken to them since.

“I have thriven very well in business, and my name is up as being a
person who can be depended on, when folks treats me handsomely.  I always
make a point when a gentleman comes to me, and says, ‘Mr. Dale’ or
‘John,’ for I have no objection to be called John by a gentleman—‘I wants
a good horse, and I am ready to pay a good price’—I always makes a point,
I say, to furnish him with an animal worth the money; but when I sees a
fellow, whether he calls himself gentleman or not, wishing to circumvent
me what does I do?  I doesn’t quarrel with him; not I; but, letting him
imagine he is taking me in, I contrives to sell him a screw for thirty
pounds, not worth thirty shillings.  All honest, respectable people have
at present great confidence in me, and frequently commissions me to buy
them horses at great fairs like this.

“This short young gentleman was recommended to me by a great landed
proprietor, to whom he bore letters of recommendation from some great
prince in his own country, who had a long time ago been entertained at
the house of the landed proprietor, and the consequence is, that I brings
young six foot six to Horncastle, and purchases for him the horse of the
Romany Rye.  I don’t do these kind things for nothing, it is true; that
can’t be expected, for every one must live by his trade; but, as I said
before, when I am treated handsomely, I treat folks so.  Honesty, I have
discovered, as perhaps some other people have, is by far the best policy;
though, as I also said before, when I’m along with thieves, I can beat
them at their own game.  If I am obliged to do it, I can pass off the
veriest screw as a flying drummedary, for even when I was a child I had
found out by various means what may be done with animals.  I wish now to
ask a civil question, Mr. Romany Rye.  Certain folks have told me that
you are a horse witch; are you one, or are you not?”

“I, like yourself,” said I, “know, to a certain extent, what may be done
with animals.”

“Then how would you, Mr. Romany Rye, pass off the veriest screw in the
world for a flying drummedary?”

“By putting a small live eel down his throat; as long as the eel remained
in his stomach, the horse would appear brisk and lively in a surprising
degree.”

“And how would you contrive to make a regular kicker and biter appear so
tame and gentle, that any respectable fat old gentleman of sixty, who
wanted an easy goer, would be glad to purchase him for fifty pounds?”

“By pouring down his throat four pints of generous old ale, which would
make him so happy and comfortable, that he would not have the heart to
kick or bite anybody, for a season at least.”

“And where did you learn all this?” said the jockey.

“I have read about the eel in an old English book, and about the making
drunk in a Spanish novel, and, singularly enough, I was told the same
things by a wild blacksmith in Ireland.  Now tell me, do you bewitch
horses in this way?”

“I?” said the jockey; “mercy upon us!  I wouldn’t do such things for a
hatful of money.  No, no, preserve me from live eels and hocussing!  And
now let me ask you, how you would spirit a horse out of a field?”

“How would I spirit a horse out of a field?”

“Yes; supposing you were down in the world, and had determined on taking
up the horse-stealing line of business.”

“Why, I should—  But I tell you what, friend, I see you are trying to
pump me, and I tell you plainly that I will hear something from you with
respect to your art, before I tell you anything more.  Now, how would you
whisper a horse out of a field, provided you were down in the world, and
so forth?”

“Ah, ah, I see you are up to a game, Mr. Romany; however, I am a
gentleman in mind, if not by birth, and I scorn to do the unhandsome
thing to anybody who has dealt fairly towards me.  Now, you told me
something I didn’t know, and I’ll tell you something which perhaps you do
know.  I whispers a horse out of a field in this way: I have a mare in my
stable; well, in the early season of the year I goes into my stable—
Well, I puts the sponge into a small bottle which I keeps corked.  I
takes my bottle in my hand, and goes into a field, suppose by night,
where there is a very fine stag horse.  I manage with great difficulty to
get within ten yards of the horse, who stands staring at me just ready to
run away.  I then uncorks my bottle, presses my forefinger to the sponge,
and holds it out to the horse, the horse gives a sniff, then a start, and
comes nearer.  I corks up my bottle and puts it into my pocket.  My
business is done, for the next two hours the horse would follow me
anywhere—the difficulty, indeed, would be to get rid of him.  Now, is
that your way of doing business?”

“My way of doing business?  Mercy upon us!  I wouldn’t steal a horse in
that way, or, indeed, in any way, for all the money in the world;
however, let me tell you, for your comfort, that a trick somewhat similar
is described in the history of Herodotus.”

“In the history of Herod’s ass!” said the jockey; “well, if I did write a
book, it should be about something more genteel than a dickey.”

“I did not say Herod’s ass,” said I, “but Herodotus, a very genteel
writer, I assure you, who wrote a history about very genteel people, in a
language no less genteel than Greek, more than two thousand years ago.
There was a dispute as to who should be king amongst certain imperious
chieftains.  At last they agreed to obey him whose horse should neigh
first on a certain day, in front of the royal palace, before the rising
of the sun; for you must know that they did not worship the person who
made the sun as we do, but the sun itself.  So one of these chieftains,
talking over the matter to his groom, and saying he wondered who would be
king, the fellow said: ‘Why you, master, or I don’t know much about
horses’.  So the day before the day of trial, what does the groom do, but
takes his master’s horse before the palace and introduce him to a mare in
the stable, and then lead him forth again.  Well, early the next day all
the chieftains on their horses appeared in front of the palace before the
dawn of day.  Not a horse neighed but one, and that was the horse of him
who had consulted with his groom, who, thinking of the animal within the
stable, gave such a neigh that all the buildings rang.  His rider was
forthwith elected king, and a brave king he was.  So this shows what
seemingly wonderful things may be brought about by a little preparation.”

“It doth,” said the jockey; “what was the chap’s name?”

“His name—his name—Darius Hystaspes.”

“And the groom’s?”

“I don’t know.”

“And he made a good king?”

“First-rate.”

“Only think! well, if he made a good king, what a wonderful king the
groom would have made, through whose knowledge of ’orses he was put on
the throne.  And now another question Mr. Romany Rye, have you particular
words which have power to soothe or aggravate horses?”

“You should ask me,” said I, “whether I have horses that can be
aggravated or soothed by particular words.  No words have any particular
power over horses or other animals who have never heard them before—how
should they?  But certain animals connect ideas of misery or enjoyment
with particular words which they are acquainted with.  I’ll give you an
example.  I knew a cob in Ireland that could be driven to a state of
kicking madness by a particular word, used by a particular person, in a
particular tone; but that word was connected with a very painful
operation which had been performed upon him by that individual, who had
frequently employed it at a certain period whilst the animal had been
under his treatment.  The same cob could be soothed in a moment by
another word, used by the same individual in a very different kind of
tone; the word was _deaghblasda_, or sweet tasted.  Some time after the
operation, whilst the cob was yet under his hands, the fellow—who was
what the Irish call a fairy smith—had done all he could to soothe the
creature, and had at last succeeded by giving it gingerbread-buttons, of
which the cob became passionately fond.  Invariably, however, before
giving it a button, he said, ‘_Deaghblasda_,’ with which word the cob by
degrees associated an idea of unmixed enjoyment: so if he could rouse the
cob to madness by the word which recalled the torture to its remembrance,
he could as easily soothe it by the other word, which the cob knew would
be instantly followed by the button, which the smith never failed to give
him after using the word _deaghblasda_.”

“There is nothing wonderful to be done,” said the jockey, “without a good
deal of preparation, as I know myself.  Folks stare and wonder at certain
things which they would only laugh at if they knew how they were done;
and to prove what I say is true, I will give you one or two examples.
Can either of you lend me a handkerchief?  That won’t do,” said he, as I
presented him with a silk one.  “I wish for a delicate white
handkerchief.  That’s just the kind of thing,” said he, as the Hungarian
offered him a fine white cambric handkerchief, beautifully worked with
gold at the hems; “now you shall see me set this handkerchief on fire.”
“Don’t let him do so by any means,” said the Hungarian, speaking to me in
German, “it is the gift of a lady whom I highly admire, and I would not
have it burnt for the world.”  “He has no occasion to be under any
apprehension,” said the jockey, after I had interpreted to him what the
Hungarian had said, “I will restore it to him uninjured, or my name is
not Jack Dale.”  Then sticking the handkerchief carelessly into the left
side of his bosom, he took the candle, which by this time had burnt very
low, and holding his head back, he applied the flame to the handkerchief,
which instantly seemed to catch fire.  “What do you think of that?” said
he to the Hungarian.  “Why, that you have ruined me,” said the latter.
“No harm done, I assure you,” said the jockey, who presently, clapping
his hand on his bosom extinguished the fire, and returned the
handkerchief to the Hungarian, asking him if it was burnt.  “I see no
burn upon it,” said the Hungarian; “but in the name of Gott, how could
you set it on fire without burning it?”  “I never set it on fire at all,”
said the jockey; “I set this on fire,” showing us a piece of half-burnt
calico.  “I placed this calico above it, and lighted not the
handkerchief, but the rag.  Now I will show you something else.  I have a
magic shilling in my pocket, which I can make run up along my arm.  But,
first of all, I would gladly know whether either of you can do the like.”
Thereupon the Hungarian and myself, putting our hands into our pockets,
took out shillings, and endeavoured to make them run up our arms, but
utterly failed; both shillings, after we had made two or three attempts,
falling to the ground.  “What noncomposses you both are,” said the
jockey; and placing a shilling on the end of the fingers of his right
hand he made strange faces to it, drawing back his head, whereupon the
shilling instantly began to run up his arm, occasionally hopping and
jumping as if it were bewitched, always endeavouring to make towards the
head of the jockey.

“How do I do that?” said he, addressing himself to me.  “I really do not
know,” said I, “unless it is by the motion of your arm.”  “The motion of
my nonsense,” said the jockey, and, making a dreadful grimace, the
shilling hopped upon his knee, and began to run up his thigh and to climb
up his breast.  “How is that done?” said he again.  “By witchcraft, I
suppose,” said I.  “There you are right,” said the jockey; “by the
witchcraft of one of Miss Berners’ hairs; the end of one of her long
hairs is tied to that shilling by means of a hole in it, and the other
end goes round my neck by means of a loop; so that, when I draw back my
head, the shilling follows it.  I suppose you wish to know how I got the
hair,” said he, grinning at me.  “I will tell you.  I once, in the course
of my ridings, saw Miss Berners beneath a hedge, combing out her long
hair, and, being rather a modest kind of person, what must I do but get
off my horse, tie him to a gate, go up to her, and endeavour to enter
into conversation with her.  After giving her the sele of the day, and
complimenting her on her hair, I asked her to give me one of the threads;
whereupon she gave me such a look, and, calling me fellow, told me to
take myself off.  ‘I must have a hair first,’ said I, making a snatch at
one.  I believe I hurt her; but, whether I did or not, up she started,
and, though her hair was unbound, gave me the only drubbing I ever had in
my life.  Lor! how, with her right hand, she fibbed me whilst 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,
with which I have on evenings after fairs, like this, frequently worked
what seemed to those who looked on downright witchcraft, but which is
nothing more than pleasant deception.  And now, Mr. Romany Rye, to
testify my regard for you, I give you the shilling and the hair.  I think
you have a kind of respect for Miss Berners; but whether you have or not,
keep them as long as you can, and whenever you look at them think of the
finest woman in England, and of John Dale, the jockey of Horncastle.  I
believe I have told you my history,” said he—“no, not quite; there is one
circumstance I had passed over.  I told you that I have thriven very well
in business, and so I have, upon the whole: at any rate, I find myself
comfortably off now.  I have horses, money, and owe nobody a groat; at
any rate, nothing but what I could pay to-morrow.  Yet I have had my
dreary day, ay, after I had obtained what I call a station in the world.
All of a sudden, about five years ago, everything seemed to go wrong with
me—horses became sick or died, people who owed me money broke or ran
away, my house caught fire, in fact, everything went against me; and not
from any mismanagement of my own.  I looked round for help, but—what do
you think?—nobody would help me.  Somehow or other it had got abroad that
I was in difficulties, and everybody seemed disposed to avoid me, as if I
had got the plague.  Those who were always offering me help when I wanted
none, now, when they thought me in trouble, talked of arresting me.  Yes;
two particular friends of mine, who had always been offering me their
purses when my own was stuffed full, now talked of arresting me, though I
only owed the scoundrels a hundred pounds each; and they would have done
so, provided I had not paid them what I owed them; and how did I do that?
Why, I was able to do it because I found a friend—and who was that
friend?  Why, a man who has since been hung, of whom everybody has heard,
and of whom everybody for the next hundred years will occasionally talk.

“One day, whilst in trouble, I was visited by a person I had occasionally
met at sporting dinners.  He came to look after a Suffolk Punch, the best
horse, by-the-bye, that anybody can purchase to drive, it being the only
animal of the horse kind in England that will pull twice at a dead
weight.  I told him that I had none at that time that I could recommend;
in fact, that every horse in my stable was sick.  He then invited me to
dine with him at an inn close by, and I was glad to go with him, in the
hope of getting rid of unpleasant thoughts.  After dinner, during which
he talked nothing but slang, observing I looked very melancholy, he asked
me what was the matter with me, and I, my heart being opened by the wine
he had made me drink, told him my circumstances without reserve.  With an
oath or two for not having treated him at first like a friend, he said he
would soon set me all right; and pulling out two hundred pounds, told me
to pay him when I could.  I felt as I never felt before; however, I took
his notes, paid my sneaks, and in less than three months was right again,
and had returned him his money.  On paying it to him, I said that I had
now a Punch which would just suit him, saying that I would give it to
him—a free gift—for nothing.  He swore at me, telling me to keep my
Punch, for that he was suited already.  I begged him to tell me how I
could requite him for his kindness, whereupon, with the most dreadful
oath I ever heard, he bade me come and see him hanged when his time was
come.  I wrung his hand, and told him I would, and I kept my word.  The
night before the day he was hanged at H—, I harnessed a Suffolk Punch to
my light gig, the same Punch which I had offered to him, which I have
ever since kept, and which brought me and this short young man to
Horncastle, and in eleven hours I drove that Punch one hundred and ten
miles.  I arrived at H— just in the nick of time.  There was the ugly
jail, the scaffold, and there upon it stood the only friend I ever had in
the world.  Driving my Punch, which was all in a foam, into the midst of
the crowd, which made way for me as if it knew what I came for, I stood
up in my gig, took off my hat, and shouted: ‘God Almighty bless you,
Jack!’  The dying man turned his pale grim face towards me—for his face
was always somewhat grim, do you see—nodded and said, or I thought I
heard him say: ‘All right old chap’.  The next moment—my eyes water.  He
had a high heart, got into a scrape whilst in the marines, lost his
half-pay, took to the turf, ring, gambling, and at last cut the throat of
a villain who had robbed him of nearly all he had.  But he had good
qualities, and I know for certain that he never did half the bad things
laid to his charge; for example, he never bribed Tom Oliver to fight
cross, as it was said he did on the day of the awful thunder-storm.  Ned
Flatnose fairly beat Tom Oliver, for though Ned was not what’s called a
good fighter, he had a particular blow, which if he could put in he was
sure to win.  His right shoulder, do you see, was two inches farther back
than it ought to have been, and consequently his right fist generally
fell short; but if he could swing himself round, and put in a blow with
that right arm, he could kill or take away the senses of anybody in the
world.  It was by putting in that blow in his second fight with Spring
that he beat noble Tom.  Spring beat him like a sack in the first battle,
but in the second Ned Painter—for that was his real name—contrived to put
in his blow, and took the senses out of Spring; and in like manner he
took the senses out of Tom Oliver.

“Well, some are born to be hanged, and some are not; and many of those
who are not hanged are much worse than those who are.  Jack, with many a
good quality, is hanged, whilst that fellow of a lord, who wanted to get
the horse from you at about two-thirds of his value, without a single
good quality in the world, is not hanged, and probably will remain so.
You ask the reason why, perhaps.  I’ll tell you; the lack of a certain
quality called courage, which Jack possessed in abundance, will preserve
him; from the love which he bears his own neck he will do nothing which
can bring him to the gallows.  In my rough way I’ll draw their characters
from their childhood, and then ask whether Jack was not the best
character of the two.  Jack was a rough, audacious boy, fond of fighting,
going a birds’-nesting, but I never heard he did anything particularly
cruel save once, I believe, tying a canister to a butcher’s dog’s tail;
whilst this fellow of a lord was by nature a savage beast, and when a boy
would in winter pluck poor fowls naked, and set them running on the ice
and in the snow, and was particularly fond of burning cats alive in the
fire.  Jack, when a lad, gets a commission on board a ship as an officer
of horse marines, and in two or three engagements behaves quite up to the
mark—at least of a marine, the marines having no particular character for
courage, you know—never having run to the guns and fired them like madmen
after the blue jackets had had more than enough.  Oh, dear me, no!  My
lord gets into the valorous British army, where cowardice—oh, dear me!—is
a thing almost entirely unknown; and being on the field of Waterloo the
day before the battle, falls off his horse, and, pretending to be hurt in
the back, gets himself put on the sick list—a pretty excuse—hurting his
back—for not being present at such a fight.  Old Benbow, after part of
both his legs had been shot away in a sea-fight, made the carpenter make
him a cradle to hold his bloody stumps, and continued on deck, cheering
his men till he died.  Jack returns home, and gets into trouble, and
having nothing to subsist by but his wits, gets his living by the ring,
and the turf, and gambling, doing many an odd kind of thing, I dare say,
but not half those laid to his charge.  My lord does much the same
without the excuse for doing so which Jack had, for he had plenty of
means, is a leg, and a black, only in a more polished way, and with more
cunning, and I may say success, having done many a rascally thing never
laid to his charge.  Jack at last cuts the throat of a villain who had
cheated him of all he had in the world, and who, I am told, was in many
points the counterpart of this screw and white feather, is taken up,
tried, and executed; and certainly taking away a man’s life is a dreadful
thing; but is there nothing as bad?  Whitefeather will cut no person’s
throat—I will not say who has cheated him, for being a cheat himself, he
will take good care that nobody cheats him, but he’ll do something quite
as bad; out of envy to a person who never injured him, and whom he hates
for being more clever and respected than himself, he will do all he
possibly can, by backbiting and every unfair means, to do that person a
mortal injury.  But Jack is hanged, and my lord is not.  Is that right?
My wife, Mary Fulcher—I beg her pardon, Mary Dale—who is a Methodist, and
has heard the mighty preacher, Peter Williams, says some people are
preserved from hanging by the grace of God.  With her I differs, and says
it is from want of courage.  This Whitefeather, with one particle of
Jack’s courage, and with one tithe of his good qualities, would have been
hanged long ago, for he has ten times Jack’s malignity.  Jack was hanged
because, along with his bad qualities, he had courage and generosity;
this fellow is not, because with all Jack’s bad qualities, and many more,
amongst which is cunning, he has neither courage nor generosity.  Think
of a fellow like that putting down two hundred pounds to relieve a
distressed fellow-creature; why he would rob, but for the law and the
fear it fills him with, a workhouse child of its breakfast, as the saying
is—and has been heard to say that he would not trust his own father for
sixpence, and he can’t imagine why such a thing as credit should be ever
given.  I never heard a person give him a good word—stay, stay, yes!  I
once heard an old parson, to whom I sold a Punch, say that he had the art
of receiving company gracefully and dismissing them without refreshment.
I don’t wish to be too hard with him, and so let him make the most of
that compliment.  Well! he manages to get on, whilst Jack is hanged; not
quite enviably, however; he has had his rubs, and pretty hard
ones—everybody knows he slunk from Waterloo, and occasionally checks him
with so doing; whilst he has been rejected by a woman—what a
mortification to the low pride of which the scoundrel has plenty!
There’s a song about both circumstances, which may, perhaps, ring in his
ears on a dying bed.  It’s a funny kind of song, set to the old tune of
the Lord-Lieutenant or Deputy, and with it I will conclude my discourse,
for I really think it’s past one.”  The jockey then, with a very
tolerable voice, sung the following song:—



THE JOCKEY’S SONG.


    Now list to a ditty both funny and true!—
       Merrily moves the dance along—
    A ditty that tells of a coward and screw,
       My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

    Sir Plume, though not liking a bullet at all,—
       Merrily moves the dance along—
    Had yet resolution to go to a _ball_,
       My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

    “Woulez wous danser, mademoiselle?”—
       Merrily moves the dance along;—
    Said she, “Sir, to dance I should like very well,”
       My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

    They danc’d to the left, and they danc’d to the right,—
       Merrily moves the dance along;—
    And her troth the fair damsel bestow’d on the knight
       My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

    “Now, what shall I fetch you, mademoiselle?”—
       Merrily moves the dance along;—
    Said she, “Sir, an ice I should like very well,”
       My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

    But the ice, when he’d got it, he instantly ate,—
       Merrily moves the dance along;—
    Although his poor partner was all in a fret,
       My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

    He ate up the ice like a prudent young lord,—
       Merrily moves the dance along;—
    For he saw ’t was the very last ice on the board,
       My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

    “Now, when shall we marry?” the gentleman cried;—
       Merrily moves the dance along;—
    “Sir, get you to Jordan,” the damsel replied,
       My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

    “I never will wed with the pitiful elf”—
       Merrily moves the dance along—
    “Who ate up the ice which I wanted myself,”
       My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

    “I’d pardon your backing from red Waterloo,”—
       Merrily moves the dance along—
    “But I never will wed with a coward and screw,”
       My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.




CHAPTER XLIII.


THE next morning I began to think of departing; I had sewed up the money
which I had received for the horse in a portion of my clothing, where I
entertained no fears for its safety, with the exception of a small sum in
notes, gold and silver, which I carried in my pocket.  Ere departing,
however, I determined to stroll about and examine the town, and observe
more particularly the humours of the fair than I had hitherto an
opportunity of doing.  The town, when I examined it, offered no object
worthy of attention but its church—an edifice of some antiquity; under
the guidance of an old man, who officiated as sexton, I inspected its
interior attentively, occasionally conversing with my guide, who,
however, seemed much more disposed to talk about horses than the church.
“No good horses in the fair this time, measter,” said he; “none but one
brought hither by a chap whom nobody knows, and bought by a foreigneering
man, who came here with Jack Dale.  The horse fetched a good swinging
price, which is said, however, to be much less than its worth; for the
horse is a regular clipper; not such a one ’tis said, has been seen in
the fair for several summers.  Lord Whitefeather says that he believes
the fellow who brought him to be a highwayman, and talks of having him
taken up, but Lord Whitefeather is only in a rage because he could not
get him for himself.  The chap would not sell it to un; Lord Screw wanted
to beat him down, and the chap took huff, said he wouldn’t sell it to him
at no price, and accepted the offer of the foreigneering man, or of Jack,
who was his ’terpreter, and who scorned to higgle about such an hanimal,
because Jack is a gentleman, though bred a dickey-boy, whilst ’tother,
though bred a Lord, is a screw and a whitefeather.  Every one says the
cove was right, and I says so too; I likes spirit, and if the cove were
here, and in your place, measter, I would invite him to drink a pint of
beer.  Good horses are scarce now, measter, ay, and so are good men,
quite a different set from what there were when I was young; that was the
time for men and horses.  Lord bless you, I know all the breeders about
here; they are not a bad set, and they breed a very fairish set of
horses, but they are not like what their fathers were, nor are their
horses like their fathers’ horses.  Now there is Mr. —, the great
breeder, a very fairish man, with very fairish horses; but, Lord bless
you, he’s nothing to what his father was, nor his steeds to his father’s;
I ought to know, for I was at the school here with his father, and
afterwards for many a year helped him to get up his horses; that was when
I was young, measter—those were the days.  You look at that monument,
measter,” said he, as I stopped and looked attentively at a monument on
the southern side of the church near the altar; “that was put up for a
rector of this church, who lived a long time ago, in Oliver’s time, and
was ill-treated and imprisoned by Oliver and his men; you will see all
about it on the monument.  There was a grand battle fought nigh this
place, between Oliver’s men and the Royal party, and the Royal party had
the worst of it, as I’m told they generally had; and Oliver’s men came
into the town, and did a great deal of damage, and ill-treated the
people.  I can’t remember anything about the matter myself, for it
happened just one hundred years before I was born, but my father was
acquainted with an old countryman, who lived not many miles from here,
who said he remembered perfectly well the day of the battle; that he was
a boy at the time, and was working in a field near the place where the
battle was fought, and he heard shouting and noise of firearms, and also
the sound of several balls, which fell in the field near him.  Come this
way, measter, and I will show you some remains of that day’s field.”
Leaving the monument, on which was inscribed an account of the life and
sufferings of the Royalist Rector of Horncastle, I followed the sexton to
the western end of the church, where, hanging against the wall, were a
number of scythes stuck in the ends of poles.  “Those are the weapons,
measter,” said the sexton, “which the great people put into the hands of
a number of the country folks, in order that they might use them against
Oliver’s men; ugly weapons enough; however, Oliver’s men won, and Sir
Jacob Ashley and his party were beat.  And a rare time Oliver and his men
had of it, till Oliver died, when the other party got the better, not by
fighting, ’tis said, but through a General Monk, who turned sides.  Ah,
the old fellow that my father knew said he well remembered the time when
General Monk went over and proclaimed Charles the Second.  Bonfires were
lighted everywhere, oxen roasted, and beer drunk by pailfuls; the country
folks were drunk with joy, and something else; sung scurvy songs about
Oliver to the tune of Barney Banks, and pelted his men, wherever they
found them, with stones and dirt.”  “The more ungrateful scoundrels
they,” said I.  “Oliver and his men fought the battle of English
independence against a wretched king and corrupt lords.  Had I been
living at the time, I should have been proud to be a trooper of Oliver.”
“You would, measter, would you?  Well, I never quarrels with the opinions
of people who come to look at the church, and certainly independence is a
fine thing.  I like to see a chap of an independent spirit, and if I were
now to see the cove who refused to sell his horse to my Lord Screw and
Whitefeather, and let Jack Dale have him, I would offer to treat him to a
pint of beer—e’es, I would, verily.  Well, measter, you have now seen the
church, and all there’s in it worth seeing—so I’ll just lock up, and go
and finish digging the grave I was about when you came, after which I
must go into the fair to see how matters are going on.  Thank ye,
measter,” said he, as I put something into his hand; “thank ye kindly;
’tis not every one who gives me a shilling now-a-days who comes to see
the church, but times are very different from what they were when I was
young; I was not sexton then, but something better; helped Mr. — with his
horses, and got many a broad crown.  Those were the days, measter, both
for men and horses; and I say, measter, if men and horses were so much
better when I was young than they are now, what, I wonder, must they have
been in the time of Oliver and his men?”

          [Picture: Horncastle Church in 1820 (since restored)]




CHAPTER XLIV.


LEAVING the church, I strolled through the fair, looking at the horses,
listening to the chaffering of the buyers and sellers, and occasionally
putting in a word of my own, which was not always received with much
deference; suddenly, however, on a whisper arising that I was the young
cove who had brought the wonderful horse to the fair which Jack Dale had
bought for the foreigneering man, I found myself an object of the
greatest attention; those who had before replied with stuff! and
nonsense! to what I said, now listened with the greatest eagerness to any
nonsense which I chose to utter, and I did not fail to utter a great
deal; presently, however, becoming disgusted with the beings about me, I
forced my way, not very civilly, through my crowd of admirers; and
passing through an alley and a back street, at last reached an outskirt
of the fair, where no person appeared to know me.  Here I stood, looking
vacantly on what was going on, musing on the strange infatuation of my
species, who judge of a person’s words, not from their intrinsic merit,
but from the opinion—generally an erroneous one—which they have formed of
the person.  From this reverie I was roused by certain words which
sounded near me, uttered in a strange tone, and in a strange cadence—the
words were, “them that finds, wins; and them that can’t find, loses”.
Turning my eyes in the direction from which the words proceeded, I saw
six or seven people, apparently all countrymen, gathered round a person
standing behind a tall white table of very small compass.  “What!” said
I, “the thimble-engro of — Fair here at Horncastle.”  Advancing nearer,
however, I perceived that though the present person was a thimble-engro,
he was a very different one from my old acquaintance of — Fair.  The
present one was a fellow about half a foot taller than the other.  He had
a long, haggard, wild face, and was dressed in a kind of jacket,
something like that of a soldier, with dirty hempen trousers, and with a
foreign-looking peaked hat on his head.  He spoke with an accent
evidently Irish, and occasionally changed the usual thimble formule into,
“them that finds, wins, and them that can’t—och, sure!—they loses”;
saying also frequently, “your honour,” instead of “my lord”.  I observed,
on drawing nearer, that he handled the pea and thimble with some
awkwardness, like that which might be expected from a novice in the
trade.  He contrived, however, to win several shillings, for he did not
seem to play for gold, from “their honours”.  Awkward as he was, he
evidently did his best, and never flung a chance away by permitting any
one to win.  He had just won three shillings from a farmer, who, incensed
at his loss, was calling him a confounded cheat, and saying that he would
play no more, when up came my friend of the preceding day, Jack, the
jockey.  This worthy, after looking at the thimble-man a moment or two,
with a peculiarly crafty glance, cried out, as he clapped down a shilling
on the table, “I will stand you, old fellow!”  “Them that finds, wins;
and them that can’t—och, sure!—they loses,” said the thimble-man.  The
game commenced, and Jack took up the thimble without finding the pea;
another shilling was produced, and lost in the same manner: “this is slow
work,” said Jack, banging down a guinea on the table; “can you cover
that, old fellow?”  The man of the thimble looked at the gold, and then
at him who produced it, and scratched his head.  “Come, cover that, or I
shall be off,” said the jockey.  “Och, sure, my lord!—no, I mean your
honour—no, sure, your lordship,” said the other, “if I covers it at all,
it must be with silver, for divil a bit of gold have I by me.”  “Well,
then, produce the value in silver,” said the jockey, “and do it quickly,
for I can’t be staying here all day.”  The thimble-man hesitated, looked
at Jack with a dubious look, then at the gold, and then scratched his
head.  There was now a laugh amongst the surrounders, which evidently
nettled the fellow, who forthwith thrust his hand into his pocket, and
pulling out all his silver treasure, just contrived to place the value of
the guinea on the table.  “Them that finds, wins, and them that can’t
find—_loses_,” interrupted Jack, lifting up a thimble, out of which
rolled a pea.  “There, paddy, what do you think of that?” said he,
seizing the heap of silver with one hand, whilst he pocketed the guinea
with the other.  The thimble-engro stood, for some time, like one
transfixed, his eyes glaring wildly, now at the table, and now at his
successful customer; at last he said: “Arrah, sure, master!—no, I manes
my lord—you are not going to ruin a poor boy!”  “Ruin you!” said the
other; “what! by winning a guinea’s change? a pretty small dodger you—if
you have not sufficient capital, why do you engage in so deep a trade as
thimbling? come, will you stand another game?”  “Och, sure, master, no!
the twenty shillings and one which you have chated me of were all I had
in the world.”  “Cheated you,” said Jack, “say that again, and I will
knock you down.”  “Arrah! sure, master, you knows that the pea under the
thimble was not mine; here is mine master; now give me back my money.”
“A likely thing,” said Jack; “no, no, I know a trick worth two or three
of that; whether the pea was yours or mine, you will never have your
twenty shillings and one again; and if I have ruined you, all the better;
I’d gladly ruin all such villains as you, who ruin poor men with your
dirty tricks, whom you would knock down and rob on the road, if you had
but courage: not that I mean to keep your shillings, with the exception
of the two you cheated from me, which I’ll keep.  A scramble, boys! a
scramble!” said he, flinging up all the silver into the air, with the
exception of the two shillings; and a scramble there instantly was,
between the rustics who had lost their money and the urchins who came
running up; the poor thimble-engro tried likewise to have his share; but
though he flung himself down, in order to join more effectually in the
scramble, he was unable to obtain a single sixpence; and having in his
rage given some of his fellow-scramblers a cuff or two, he was set upon
by the boys and country fellows, and compelled to make an inglorious
retreat with his table, which had been flung down in the scuffle, and had
one of its legs broken.  As he retired, the rabble hooted, and Jack,
holding up in derision the pea with which he had out-manœuvred him,
exclaimed: “I always carry this in my pocket in order to be a match for
vagabonds like you”.

The tumult over, Jack gone, and the rabble dispersed, I followed the
discomfited adventurer at a distance, who, leaving the town, went slowly
on, carrying his dilapidated piece of furniture, till coming to an old
wall by the roadside, he placed it on the ground, and sat down, seemingly
in deep despondency, holding his thumb to his mouth.  Going nearly up to
him, I stood still, whereupon he looked up, and perceiving I was looking
steadfastly at him, he said, in a angry tone: “Arrah! what for are you
staring at me so?  By my shoul, I think you are one of the thaives who
are after robbing me.  I think I saw you among them, and if I were only
sure of it, I would take the liberty of trying to give you a big bating.”
“You have had enough of trying to give people a beating,” said I; “you
had better be taking your table to some skilful carpenter to get it
repaired.  He will do it for sixpence.”  “Divil a sixpence did you and
your thaives leave me,” said he; “and if you do not take yourself off,
joy, I will be breaking your ugly head with the foot of it.”  “Arrah,
Murtagh!” said I, “would ye be breaking the head of your friend and
scholar to whom you taught the blessed tongue of Oilien nan Naomha, in
exchange for a pack of cards?”  Murtagh, for he it was, gazed at me for a
moment with a bewildered look; then, with a gleam of intelligence in his
eye, he said: “Shorsha! no, it can’t be—yes by my faith it is!”  Then,
springing up and seizing me by the hand, he said: “Yes, by the powers,
sure enough it is Shorsha agra! Arrah, Shorsha! where have you been this
many a day?  Sure, you are not one of the spalpeens who are after robbing
me?”  “Not I,” I replied, “but I saw all that happened.  Come, you must
not take matters so to heart; cheer up; such things will happen in
connection with the trade you have taken up.”  “Sorrow befall the trade,
and the thief who taught it me,” said Murtagh; “and yet the trade is not
a bad one, if I only knew more of it, and had some one to help and back
me.  Och! the idea of being cheated and bamboozled by that one-eyed thief
in the horseman’s dress.”  “Let bygones be bygones, Murtagh,” said I; “it
is no use grieving for the past; sit down, and let us have a little
pleasant gossip.  Arrah, Murtagh! when I saw you sitting under the wall,
with your thumb to your mouth, it brought to my mind tales which you used
to tell me all about Finn-ma-Coul.  You have not forgotten Finn-ma-Coul,
Murtagh, and how he sucked wisdom out of his thumb.”  “Sorrow a bit have
I forgot about him, Shorsha,” said Murtagh, as we sat down together, “nor
what you yourself told me about the snake.  Arrah, Shorsha! what ye told
me about the snake bates anything I ever told you about Finn.  Ochone,
Shorsha! perhaps you will be telling me about the snake once more?  I
think the tale would do me good, and I have need of comfort, God knows,
ochone!”  Seeing Murtagh in such a distressed plight, I forthwith told
him over again the tale of the snake, in precisely the same words as I
have related it in the first part of this history.  After which, I said:
“Now, Murtagh, tit for tat; ye will be telling me one of the old stories
of Finn-ma-Coul”.  “Och, Shorsha! I haven’t heart enough,” said Murtagh.
“Thank you for your tale, but it makes me weep; it brings to my mind
Dungarvon times of old—I mean the times we were at school together.”
“Cheer up, man,” said I, “and let’s have the story, and let it be about
Ma-Coul and the salmon and his thumb.”  “Arrah, Shorsha! I can’t.  Well,
to oblige you, I’ll give it you.  Well, you know Ma-Coul was an exposed
child, and came floating over the salt sea in a chest which was cast
ashore at Veintry Bay.  In the corner of that bay was a castle, where
dwelt a giant and his wife, very respectable and dacent people, and this
giant, taking his morning walk along the bay, came to the place where the
child had been cast ashore in his box.  Well, the giant looked at the
child, and being filled with compassion for his exposed state, took the
child up in his box, and carried him home to his castle, where he and his
wife, being dacent respectable people, as I telled ye before, fostered
the child and took care of him, till he became old enough to go out to
service and gain his livelihood, when they bound him out apprentice to
another giant, who lived in a castle up the country, at some distance
from the bay.

“This giant, whose name was Darmod David Odeen, was not a respectable
person at all, but a big ould wagabone.  He was twice the size of the
other giant, who, though bigger than any man, was not a big giant; for,
as there are great and small men, so there are great and small giants—I
mean some are small when compared with the others.  Well, Finn served
this giant a considerable time, doing all kinds of hard and unreasonable
service for him, and receiving all kinds of hard words, and many a hard
knock and kick to boot—sorrow befall the ould wagabone who could thus
ill-treat a helpless foundling.  It chanced that one day the giant caught
a salmon, near a salmon-leap upon his estate—for, though a big ould
blackguard, he was a person of considerable landed property, and high
sheriff for the county Cork.  Well, the giant brings home the salmon by
the gills, and delivers it to Finn, telling him to roast it for the
giant’s dinner; ‘but take care, ye young blackguard,’ he added, ‘that in
roasting it—and I expect ye to roast it well—you do not let a blister
come upon its nice satin skin, for if ye do, I will cut the head off your
shoulders’.  ‘Well,’ thinks Finn, ‘this is a hard task; however, as I
have done many hard tasks for him, I will try and do this too, though I
was never set to do anything yet half so difficult.’  So he prepared his
fire, and put his gridiron upon it, and lays the salmon fairly and softly
upon the gridiron, and then he roasts it, turning it from one side to the
other just in the nick of time, before the soft satin skin could be
blistered.  However, on turning it over the eleventh time—and twelve
would have settled the business—he found he had delayed a little bit of
time too long in turning it over, and that there was a small, tiny
blister on the soft outer skin.  Well, Finn was in a mighty panic,
remembering the threats of the ould giant; however, he did not lose
heart, but clapped his thumb upon the blister in order to smooth it down.
Now the salmon, Shorsha, was nearly done, and the flesh thoroughly hot,
so Finn’s thumb was scalt, and he, clapping it to his mouth, sucked it,
in order to draw out the pain, and in a moment—hubbuboo!—became imbued
with all the wisdom of the world.”

_Myself_.  Stop, Murtagh! stop!

_Murtagh_.  All the witchcraft, Shorsha.

_Myself_.  How wonderful!

_Murtagh_.  Was it not, Shorsha?  The salmon, do you see, was a fairy
salmon.

_Myself_.  What a strange coincidence!

_Murtagh_.  A what, Shorsha?

_Myself_.  Why, that the very same tale should be told of Finn-ma-Coul
which is related of Sigurd Fafnisbane.

“What thief was that, Shorsha?”

“Thief!  ’Tis true, he took the treasure of Fafnir.  Sigurd was the hero
of the North, Murtagh, even as Finn is the great hero of Ireland.  He,
too, according to one account, was an exposed child, and came floating in
a casket to a wild shore, where he was suckled by a hind, and afterwards
found and fostered by Mimir, a fairy blacksmith; he, too, sucked wisdom
from a burn.  According to the Edda, he burnt his finger whilst feeling
of the heart of Fafnir, which he was roasting, and putting it into his
mouth in order to suck out the pain, became imbued with all the wisdom of
the world, the knowledge of the language of birds, and what not.  I have
heard you tell the tale of Finn a dozen times in the blessed days of old,
but its identity with the tale of Sigurd never occurred to me till now.
It is true, when I knew you of old, I had never read the tale of Sigurd,
and have since almost dismissed matters of Ireland from my mind; but as
soon as you told me again about Finn’s burning his finger, the
coincidence struck me.  I say, Murtagh, the Irish owe much to the Danes—”

“Devil a bit, Shorsha, do they owe to the thaives, except many a bloody
bating and plundering, which they never paid them back.  Och, Shorsha!
you, edicated in ould Ireland, to say that the Irish owes anything good
to the plundering villains—the _Siol Loughlin_.”

“They owe them half their traditions, Murtagh, and amongst others,
Finn-ma-Coul and the burnt finger; and if ever I publish the Loughlin
songs, I’ll tell the world so.”

“But, Shorsha, the world will never believe ye—to say nothing of the
Irish part of it.”

“Then the world, Murtagh—to say nothing of the Irish part of it—will be a
fool, even as I have often thought it; the grand thing, Murtagh, is to be
able to believe oneself, and respect oneself.  How few whom the world
believes believe and respect themselves.”

“Och, Shorsha! shall I go on with the tale of Finn?”

“I’d rather you should not, Murtagh, I know all about it already.”

“Then why did you bother me to tell it at first, Shorsha?  Och, it was
doing my ownself good, and making me forget my own sorrowful state, when
ye interrupted me with your thaives of Danes!  Och, Shorsha! let me tell
you how Finn, by means of sucking his thumb, and the witchcraft he
imbibed from it, contrived to pull off the arm of the ould wagabone,
Darmod David Odeen, whilst shaking hands with him—for Finn could do no
feat of strength without sucking his thumb, Shorsha, as Conan the Bald
told the son of Oisin in the song which I used to sing ye in Dungarvon
times of old;” and here Murtagh repeated certain Irish words to the
following effect:—

    O little the foolish words I heed
    O Oisin’s son, from thy lips which come;
    No strength were in Finn for valorous deed,
    Unless to the gristle he suck’d his thumb.

“Enough is as good as a feast, Murtagh, I am no longer in the cue for
Finn.  I would rather hear your own history.  Now tell us, man, all that
has happened to ye since Dungarvon times of old?”

“Och, Shorsha, it would be merely bringing all my sorrows back upon me!”

“Well, if I know all your sorrows, perhaps I shall be able to find a help
for them.  I owe you much, Murtagh; you taught me Irish, and I will do
all I can to help you.”

“Why, then, Shorsha, I’ll tell ye my history.  Here goes!”




CHAPTER XLV.


“WELL, Shorsha, about a year and a half after you left us—and a sorrowful
hour for us it was when ye left us, losing, as we did, your funny stories
of your snake, and the battles of your military—they sent me to Paris and
Salamanca, in order to make a _saggart_ of me.”

“Pray excuse me,” said I, “for interrupting you, but what kind of place
is Salamanca?”

“Divil a bit did I ever see of it, Shorsha!”

“Then why did you say ye were sent there?  Well, what kind of place is
Paris?  Not that I care much about Paris.”

“Sorrow a bit did I ever see of either of them, Shorsha, for no one sent
me to either.  When we says at home a person is going to Paris and
Salamanca, it manes that he is going abroad to study to be a _saggart_,
whether he goes to them places or not.  No, I never saw either—bad luck
to them—I was shipped away from Cork up the straits to a place called
Leghorn, from which I was sent to — to a religious house, where I was to
be instructed in saggarting till they had made me fit to cut a dacent
figure in Ireland.  We had a long and tedious voyage, Shorsha; not so
tedious, however, as it would have been had I been fool enough to lave
your pack of cards behind me, as the thaif, my brother Denis, wanted to
persuade me to do, in order that he might play with them himself.  With
the cards I managed to have many a nice game with the sailors, winning
from them ha’pennies and sixpences until the captain said that I was
ruining his men, and keeping them from their duty; and being a heretic
and a Dutchman, swore that unless I gave over he would tie me up to the
mast and give me a round dozen.  This threat obliged me to be more on my
guard, though I occasionally contrived to get a game at night, and to win
sixpennies and ha’pennies.

“We reached Leghorn at last, and glad I was to leave the ship and the
master, who gave me a kick as I was getting over the side, bad luck to
the dirty heretic for kicking a son of the Church, for I have always been
a true son of the Church, Shorsha, and never quarrelled with it unless it
interfered with me in my playing at cards.  I left Leghorn with certain
muleteers, with whom I played at cards at the baiting-houses, and who
speedily won from me all the ha’pennies and sixpences I had won from the
sailors.  I got my money’s worth, however, for I learnt from the
muleteers all kind of quaint tricks upon the cards, which I knew nothing
of before; so I did not grudge them what they chated me of, and when we
parted we did so in kindness on both sides.  On getting to — I was
received into the religious house for Irishes.  It was the Irish house,
Shorsha, into which I was taken, for I do not wish ye to suppose that I
was in the English religious house which there is in that city, in which
a purty set are edicated, and in which purty doings are going on if all
tales be true.

“In this Irish house I commenced my studies, learning to sing and to read
the Latin prayers of the Church.  ’Faith, Shorsha, many’s the sorrowful
day I passed in that house learning the prayers and litanies, being
half-starved, with no earthly diversion at all, at all, until I took the
cards out of my chest and began instructing in card-playing the chum
which I had with me in the cell; then I had plenty of diversion along
with him during the times when I was not engaged in singing, and
chanting, and saying the prayers of the Church; there was, however, some
drawback in playing with my chum, for though he was very clever in
learning, divil a sixpence had he to play with, in which respect he was
like myself, the master who taught him, who had lost all my money to the
muleteers who taught me the tricks upon the cards; by degrees, however,
it began to be noised about the religious house that Murtagh from
Hibrodary, {284} had a pack of cards with which he played with his chum
in the cell; whereupon other scholars of the religious house came to me,
some to be taught and others to play, so with some I played, and others I
taught, but neither to those who could play, or to those who could not,
did I teach the elegant tricks which I learnt from the muleteers.  Well,
the scholars came to me for the sake of the cards, and the porter and the
cook of the religious house, who could both play very well, came also; at
last I became tired of playing for nothing, so I borrowed a few bits of
silver from the cook, and played against the porter, and by means of my
tricks I won money from the porter and then I paid the cook the bits of
silver which I had borrowed of him, and played with him, and won a little
of his money, which I let him win back again, as I had lived long enough
in a religious house to know that it is dangerous to take money from the
cook.  In a little time, Shorsha, there was scarcely anything going on in
the house but card-playing; the almoner played with me, and so did the
sub-rector, and I won money from both; not too much, however, lest they
should tell the rector, who had the character of a very austere man and
of being a bit of a saint; however, the thief of a porter, whose money I
had won, informed the rector of what was going on, and one day the rector
sent for me into his private apartment, and gave me so long and pious a
lecture upon the heinous sin of card-playing, that I thought I should
sink into the ground; after about half an hour’s inveighing against
card-playing, he began to soften his tone, and with a long sigh told me
that at one time of his life he had been a young man himself, and had
occasionally used the cards; he then began to ask me some questions about
card-playing, which questions I afterwards found were to pump from me
what I knew about the science.  After a time he asked me whether I had
got my cards with me, and on my telling him I had, he expressed a wish to
see them, whereupon I took the pack out of my pocket, and showed it to
him; he looked at it very attentively, and at last, giving another deep
sigh, he said: that though he was nearly weaned from the vanities of the
world, he had still an inclination to see whether he had entirely lost
the little skill which at one time he possessed.  When I heard him speak
in this manner, I told him that if his reverence was inclined for a game
of cards, I should be very happy to play one with him; scarcely had I
uttered these words than he gave a third sigh, and looked so very much
like a saint that I was afraid he was going to excommunicate me.  Nothing
of the kind, however, for presently he gets up and locks the door, then
sitting down at the table, he motioned me to do the same, which I did,
and in five minutes there we were playing at cards, his reverence and
myself.

“I soon found that his reverence knew quite as much about card-playing as
I did.  Divil a trick was there connected with cards that his reverence
did not seem awake to.  As, however, we were not playing for money, this
circumstance did not give me much uneasiness; so we played game after
game for two hours, when his reverence, having business, told me I might
go, so I took up my cards, made my obedience, and left him.  The next day
I had other games with him, and so on for a very long time, still playing
for nothing.  At last his reverence grew tired of playing for nothing,
and proposed that we should play for money.  Now, I had no desire to play
with his reverence for money, as I knew that doing so would bring on a
quarrel.  As long as we were playing for nothing, I could afford to let
his reverence use what tricks he pleased; but if we played for money, I
couldn’t do so.  If he played his tricks, I must play mine, and use every
advantage to save my money; and there was one I possessed which his
reverence did not.  The cards being my own, I had put some delicate
little marks on the trump cards, just at the edges, so that when I daylt,
by means of a little sleight of hand, I could dale myself any trump card
I pleased.  But I wished, as I said before, to have no dealings for money
with his reverence, knowing that he was master in the house, and that he
could lead me a dog of a life, if I offended him, either by winning his
money, or not letting him win mine.  So I told him I had no money to play
with, but the ould thief knew better; he knew that I was every day
winning money from the scholars, and the sub-rector, and the other people
of the house, and the ould thaif had determined to let me go on in that
way winning money, and then by means of his tricks, which he thought I
dare not resent, to win from me all my earnings—in a word, Shorsha, to
let me fill myself like a sponge, and then squeeze me for his own
advantage.  So he made me play with him, and in less than three days came
on the quarrel; his reverence chated me, and I chated his reverence; the
ould thaif knew every trick that I knew, and one or two more; but in
daling out the cards I nicked his reverence; scarcely a trump did I ever
give him, Shorsha, and won his money purty freely.  Och, it was a purty
quarrel!  All the delicate names in the _Newgate Calendar_, if ye ever
heard of such a book; all the hang-dog names in the Newgate histories,
and the lives of Irish rogues, did we call each other—his reverence and
I!  Suddenly, however, putting out his hand, he seized the cards, saying,
‘I will examine these cards, ye chating scoundrel! for I believe there
are dirty marks on them, which ye have made in order to know the winning
cards.’  ‘Give me back my pack,’ said I, ‘or _m’anam on Dioul_ if I be
not the death of ye!’  His reverence, however, clapped the cards into his
pocket, and made the best of his way to the door, I hanging upon him.  He
was a gross, fat man, but, like most fat men, deadly strong, so he forced
his way to the door, and, opening it, flung himself out, with me still
holding on him like a terrier dog on a big fat pig; then he shouts for
help, and in a little time I was secured and thrust into a lock-up room,
where I was left to myself.  Here was a purty alteration.  Yesterday I
was the idol of the religious house, thought more on than his reverence,
every one paying me court and wurtship, and wanting to play cards with
me, and to learn my tricks, and fed, moreover, on the tidbits of the
table; and to-day I was in a cell, nobody coming to look at me but the
blackguard porter who had charge of me, my cards taken from me, and with
nothing but bread and water to live upon.  Time passed dreary enough for
a month, at the end of which time his reverence came to me, leaving the
porter just outside the door in order to come to his help should I be
violent; and then he read me a very purty lecture on my conduct, saying I
had turned the religious house topsy-turvy, and corrupted the scholars,
and that I was the chate of the world, for that on inspecting the pack he
had discovered the dirty marks which I had made upon the trump cards for
to know them by.  He said a good dale more to me, which is not worth
relating, and ended by telling me that he intended to let me out of
confinement next day, but that if ever I misconducted myself any more, he
would clap me in again for the rest of my life.  I had a good mind to
call him an ould thaif, but the hope of getting out made me hold my
tongue, and the next day I was let out; and need enough I had to be let
out, for what with being alone, and living on the bread and water, I was
becoming frighted, or, as the doctors call it, narvous.  But when I was
out—oh, what a change I found in the religious house; no card-playing,
for it had been forbidden to the scholars, and there was now nothing
going on but reading and singing; divil a merry visage to be seen, but
plenty of prim airs and graces; but the case of the scholars, though bad
enough, was not half so bad as mine, for they could speak to each other,
whereas I could not have a word of conversation, for the ould thaif of a
rector had ordered them to send me to ‘Coventry,’ telling them that I was
a gambling chate, with morals bad enough to corrupt a horse regiment; and
whereas they were allowed to divert themselves with going out, I was kept
reading and singing from morn till night.  The only soul who was willing
to exchange a word with me was the cook, and sometimes he and I had a
little bit of discourse in a corner, and we condoled with each other, for
he liked the change in the religious house almost as little as myself;
but he told me that, for all the change below stairs, there was still
card-playing going on above, for that the ould thaif of a rector, and the
sub-rector, and the almoner played at cards together, and that the rector
won money from the others—the almoner had told him so—and, moreover, that
the rector was the thaif of the world, had been a gambler in his youth,
and had once been kicked out of a club-house at Dublin for chating at
cards, and after that circumstance had apparently reformed and lived
dacently till the time when I came to the religious house with my pack,
but that the sight of that had brought him back to his ould gambling.  He
told the cook, moreover, that the rector frequently went out at night to
the houses of the great clergy and chated at cards.

“In this melancholy state, with respect to myself, things continued a
long time, when suddenly there was a report that his Holiness the Pope
intended to pay a visit to the religious house in order to examine into
its state of discipline.  When I heard this I was glad, for I determined,
after the Pope had done what he had come to do, to fall upon my knees
before him, and make a regular complaint of the treatment I had received,
to tell him of the chating at cards of the rector, and to beg him to make
the ould thaif give me back my pack again.  So the day of the visit came,
and his Holiness made his appearance with his attendants, and, having
looked over the religious house, he went into the rector’s room with the
rector, the sub-rector, and the almoner.  I intended to have waited until
his Holiness came out, but finding he stayed a long time I thought I
would e’en go into him, so I went up to the door without anybody
observing me—his attendants being walking about the corridor—and opening
it I slipped in, and there what do you think I saw?  Why, his Holiness
the Pope, and his reverence the rector, and the sub-rector, and the
almoner seated at cards; and the ould thaif of a rector was dealing out
the cards which ye had given me, Shorsha, to his Holiness the Pope, the
sub-rector, the almoner, and himself.”

In this part of his history I interrupted Murtagh, saying that I was
afraid he was telling untruths, and that it was highly improbable that
the Pope would leave the Vatican to play cards with Irish at their
religious house, and that I was sure, if on his, Murtagh’s authority, I
were to tell the world so, the world would never believe it.

“Then the world, Shorsha, would be a fool, even as you were just now
saying you had frequently believed it to be; the grand thing, Shorsha, is
to be able to believe oneself; if ye can do that, it matters very little
whether the world believes ye or no.  But a purty thing for you and the
world to stickle at the Pope’s playing at cards at a religious house of
Irish; och! if I were to tell you and the world what the Pope has been
sometimes at, at the religious house of English thaives, I would excuse
you and the world for turning up your eyes.  However, I wish to say
nothing against the Pope.  I am a son of the Church, and if the Pope
don’t interfere with my cards divil a bit will I have to say against him;
but I saw the Pope playing, or about to play, with the pack which had
been taken from me, and when I told the Pope, the Pope did not—ye had
better let me go on with my history, Shorsha; whether you or the world
belave it or not, I am sure it is quite as true as your tale of the
snake, or saying that Finn got his burnt finger from the thaives of
Loughlin; and whatever you may say, I am sure the world will think so
too.”

I apologised to Murtagh for interrupting him, and telling him that his
history, whether true or not, was infinitely diverting, begged him to
continue it.




CHAPTER XLVI.


“I WAS telling ye, Shorsha, when ye interrupted me, that I found the
Pope, the rector, the sub-rector and the almoner seated at the table, the
rector with my pack of cards in his hands, about to dale out to the Pope
and the rest, not forgetting himself, for whom he intended all the
trump-cards, no doubt.  No sooner did they perceive me than they seemed
taken all aback; but the rector, suddenly starting up with the cards in
his hand, asked me what I did there, threatening to have me well
disciplined if I did not go about my business; ‘I am come for my pack,’
said I, ‘ye ould thaif, and to tell his Holiness how I have been treated
by ye’; then going down on my knees before his Holiness, I said, ‘Arrah,
now, your Holiness! will ye not see justice done to a poor boy who has
been sadly misused?  The pack of cards which that ould ruffian has in his
hand are my cards, which he has taken from me, in order to chate with.
Arrah! don’t play with him, your Holiness, for he’ll only chate ye—there
are dirty marks upon the cards which bear the trumps, put there in order
to know them by; and the ould thaif in dealing out will give himself all
the good cards, and chate ye of the last farthing in your pocket; so let
them be taken from him, your Holiness and given back to me; and order him
to lave the room, and then, if your Holiness be for an honest game, don’t
think I am the boy to baulk ye.  I’ll take the ould ruffian’s place, and
play with ye till evening, and all night besides, and divil an advantage
will I take of the dirty marks, though I know them all, having placed
them on the cards myself.’  I was going on in this way when the ould
thaif of a rector, flinging down the cards, made at me as if to kick me
out of the room, whereupon I started up and said: ‘If ye are for kicking,
sure two can play at that’; and then I kicked at his reverence, and his
reverence at me, and there was a regular scrimmage between us, which
frightened the Pope, who, getting up, said some words which I did not
understand, but which the cook afterwards told me were, ‘English
extravagance, and this is the second edition’; for it seems that, a
little time before, his Holiness had been frightened in St. Peter’s
Church by the servant of an English family, which those thaives of the
English religious house had been endeavouring to bring over to the
Catholic faith, and who didn’t approve of their being converted.  Och!
his Holiness did us all sore injustice to call us English, and to
confound our house with the other; for however dirty our house might be,
our house was a clane house compared with the English house, and we
honest people compared with those English thaives.  Well, his Holiness
was frighted, and the almoner ran out, and brought in his Holiness’s
attendants, and they laid hold of me, but I struggled hard, and said: ‘I
will not go without my pack; arrah, your Holiness! make them give me back
my pack, which Shorsha gave me in Dungarvon times of old’; but my
struggles were of no use.  I was pulled away and put in the ould dungeon,
and his Holiness went away sore frighted, crossing himself much, and
never returned again.

“In the ould dungeon I was fastened to the wall by a chain, and there I
was disciplined once every other day for the first three weeks, and then
I was left to myself, and my chain, and hunger; and there I sat in the
dungeon, sometimes screeching, sometimes holloing, for I soon became
frighted, having nothing in the cell to divert me.  At last the cook
found his way to me by stealth, and comforted me a little, bringing me
tidbits out of the kitchen; and he visited me again and again—not often,
however, for he dare only come when he could steal away the key from the
custody of the thaif of a porter.  I was three years in the dungeon, and
should have gone mad but for the cook, and his words of comfort, and his
tidbits, and nice books which he brought me out of the library, which
were the _Calendars of Newgate_ and the _Lives of Irish Rogues and
Raparees_, the only English books in the library.  However, at the end of
three years, the ould thaif of a rector, wishing to look at them books,
missed them from the library, and made a perquisition about them, and the
thaif of a porter said that he shouldn’t wonder if I had them, saying
that he had once seen me reading; and then the rector came with others to
my cell, and took my books from me, from under my straw, and asked me how
I came by them; and on my refusal to tell, they disciplined me again till
the blood ran down my back; and making more perquisition they at last
accused the cook of having carried the books to me, and the cook not
denying, he was given warning to leave next day, but he left that night,
and took me away with him, for he stole the key, and came to me and cut
my chain through, and then he and I escaped from the religious house
through a window—the cook with a bundle, containing what things he had.
No sooner had we got out than the honest cook gave me a little bit of
money and a loaf, and told me to follow a way which he pointed out, which
he said would lead to the sea; and then, having embraced me after the
Italian way, he left me, and I never saw him again.  So I followed the
way which the cook pointed out, and in two days reached a seaport called
Chiviter Vik, terribly foot foundered, and there I met a sailor who spoke
Irish, and who belonged to a vessel just ready to sail for France; and
the sailor took me on board his vessel, and said I was his brother, and
the captain gave me a passage to a place in France called Marseilles; and
when I got there, the captain and sailor got a little money for me and a
passport, and I travelled across the country towards a place they
directed me to called Bayonne, from which they said I might, perhaps, get
to Ireland.  Coming, however, to a place called Pau, all my money being
gone, I enlisted into a regiment called the Army of the Faith, which was
going into Spain, for the King of Spain had been dethroned and imprisoned
by his own subjects, as perhaps you may have heard; and the King of
France, who was his cousin, was sending an army to help him, under the
command of his own son, whom the English called Prince Hilt, because when
he was told that he was appointed to the command, he clapped his hand on
the hilt of his sword.  So I enlisted into the regiment of the Faith,
which was made up of Spaniards, many of them priests who had run out of
Spain, and broken Germans, and foot-foundered Irish like myself.  It was
said to be a blackguard regiment, that same regiment of the Faith; but,
’faith, I saw nothing blackguardly going on in it, for you would hardly
reckon card-playing, and dominoes, and pitch and toss blackguardly, and I
saw nothing else going on in it.  There was one thing in it which I
disliked—the priests drawing their Spanish knives occasionally, when they
lost their money.  After we had been some time at Pau, the Army of the
Faith was sent across the mountains into Spain, as the vanguard of the
French; and no sooner did the Spaniards see the Faith than they made a
dash at it, and the Faith ran away, myself along with it, and got behind
the French army, which told it to keep there, and the Faith did so, and
followed the French army, which soon scattered the Spaniards, and in the
end placed the king on his throne again.  When the war was over the Faith
was disbanded; some of the foreigners, however, amongst whom I was one,
were put into a Guard regiment, and there I continued for more than a
year.

“One day, being at a place called the Escurial, I took stock, as the
tradesmen say, and found I possessed the sum of eighty dollars won by
playing at cards, for though I could not play so well with the foreign
cards as with the pack ye gave me, Shorsha, I had yet contrived to win
money from the priests and soldiers of the Faith.  Finding myself
possessed of such a capital I determined to leave the service, and to
make the best of my way to Ireland; so I deserted, but coming in an evil
hour to a place they calls Torre Lodones, I found the priest playing at
cards with his parishioners.  The sight of the cards made me stop, and
then, fool like, notwithstanding the treasure I had about me, I must wish
to play, so not being able to speak their language, I made signs to them
to let me play, and the priest and his thaives consented willingly; so I
sat down to cards with the priest and two of his parishioners, and in a
little time had won plenty of their money, but I had better never have
done any such a thing, for suddenly the priest and all his parishioners
set upon me and bate me, and took from me all I had, and cast me out of
the village more dead than alive.  Och! it’s a bad village that; and if I
had known what it was I would have avoided it, or run straight through
it, though I saw all the card-playing in the world going on in it.  There
is a proverb about it, as I was afterwards told, old as the time of the
Moors, which holds good to the present day—it is, that in Torre Lodones
there are twenty-four housekeepers, and twenty-five thieves, maning that
all the people are thaives, and the clergyman to boot, who is not
reckoned a housekeeper; and troth I found the clergyman the greatest
thaif of the lot.  After being cast out of that village I travelled for
nearly a month, subsisting by begging tolerably well, for though most of
the Spanish are thaives, they are rather charitable; but though
charitable thaives they do not like their own being taken from them
without leave being asked, as I found to my cost; for on my entering a
garden near Seville, without leave, to take an orange, the labourer came
running up and struck me to the ground with a hatchet, giving me a big
wound in the arm.  I fainted with loss of blood, and on reviving I found
myself in a hospital at Seville, to which the labourer and the people of
the village had taken me.  I should have died of starvation in that
hospital had not some English people heard of me and come to see me; they
tended me with food till I was cured, and then paid my passage on board a
ship to London, to which place the ship carried me.

“And now I was in London with five shillings in my pocket—all I had in
the world—and that did not last for long; and when it was gone I begged
in the streets, but I did not get much by that, except a month’s hard
labour in the correction-house; and when I came out I knew not what to
do, but thought I would take a walk in the country, for it was
springtime, and the weather was fine, so I took a walk about seven miles
from London, and came to a place where a great fair was being held; and
there I begged, but got nothing but a halfpenny, and was thinking of
going farther when I saw a man with a table, like that of mine, playing
with thimbles, as you saw me.  I looked at the play, and saw him win
money, and run away, and hunted by constables more than once.  I kept
following the man, and at last entered into conversation with him; and
learning from him that he was in want of a companion to help him, I
offered to help him if he would pay me; he looked at me from top to toe,
and did not wish at first to have anything to do with me, as he said my
appearance was against me.  ’Faith, Shorsha, he had better have looked at
home, for his appearance was not much in his favour: he looked very much
like a Jew, Shorsha.  However, he at last agreed to take me to be his
companion or bonnet as he called it; and I was to keep a look-out, and
let him know when constables were coming, and to spake a good word for
him occasionally, whilst he was chating folks with his thimbles and his
pea.  So I became his bonnet, and assisted him in the fair, and in many
other fairs beside; but I did not like my occupation much, or rather my
master, who, though not a big man, was a big thaif, and an unkind one,
for do all I could I could never give him pleasure; and he was
continually calling me fool and bogtrotter, and twitting me because I
could not learn his thaives’ Latin, and discourse with him in it, and
comparing me with another acquaintance, or bit of a pal of his, whom he
said he had parted with in the fair, and of whom he was fond of saying
all kinds of wonderful things, amongst others, that he knew the grammar
of all tongues.  At last, wearied with being twitted by him with not
being able to learn his thaives’ Greek, I proposed that I should teach
him Irish, that we should spake it together when we had anything to say
in secret.  To that he consented willingly; but, och! a purty hand he
made with Irish, ’faith, not much better than did I with his thaives’
Hebrew.  Then my turn came, and I twitted him nicely with dulness, and
compared him with a pal that I had in ould Ireland, in Dungarvon times of
yore, to whom I teached Irish, telling him that he was the broth of a
boy, and not only knew the grammar of all human tongues, but the dialects
of the snakes besides; in fact, I tould him all about your own swate
sell; Shorsha, and many a dispute and quarrel had we together about our
pals, which was the cleverest fellow, his or mine.

“Well, after having been wid him about two months, I quitted him without
noise, taking away one of his tables, and some peas and thimbles; and
that I did with a safe conscience, for he paid me nothing, and was not
over free with the meat and the drink, though I must say of him that he
was a clever fellow, and perfect master of his trade, by which he made a
power of money, and bating his not being able to learn Irish, and a
certain Jewish lisp which he had, a great master of his tongue, of which
he was very proud; so much so, that he once told me that when he had
saved a certain sum of money he meant to leave off the thimbling
business, and enter Parliament; into which, he said, he could get at any
time, through the interest of a friend of his, a Tory Peer—my Lord
Whitefeather, with whom, he said, he had occasionally done business.
With the table, and other things which I had taken, I commenced trade on
my own account, having contrived to learn a few of his tricks.  My only
capital was the change for half a guinea, which he had once let fall, and
which I picked up, which was all I could ever get from him: for it was
impossible to stale any money from him, he was so awake, being up to all
the tricks of thaives, having followed the diving trade, as he called it,
for a considerable time.  My wish was to make enough by my table to
enable me to return with credit to ould Ireland, where I had no doubt of
being able to get myself ordained as priest; and, in troth,
notwithstanding I was a beginner, and without any companion to help me, I
did tolerably well, getting my meat and drink, and increasing my small
capital, till I came to this unlucky place of Horncastle, where I was
utterly ruined by the thaif in the rider’s dress.  And now, Shorsha, I am
after telling you my history; perhaps you will now be telling me
something about yourself?”

I told Murtagh all about myself that I deemed necessary to relate, and
then asked him what he intended to do; he repeated that he was utterly
ruined, and that he had no prospect before him but starving, or making
away with himself.  I inquired “How much would take him to Ireland, and
establish him there with credit”.  “Five pounds,” he answered, adding,
“but who in the world would be fool enough to lend me five pounds, unless
it be yourself, Shorsha, who, may be, have not got it; for when you told
me about yourself, you made no boast of the state of your affairs.”  “I
am not very rich,” I replied, “but I think I can accommodate you with
what you want.  I consider myself under great obligations to you,
Murtagh; it was you who instructed me in the language of _Oilein nan
Naomha_, which has been the foundation of all my acquisitions in
philology; without you, I should not be what I am—Lavengro! which
signifies a philologist.  Here is the money, Murtagh,” said I, putting my
hand into my pocket, and taking out five pounds, “much good may it do
you.”  He took the money, stared at it, and then at me—“And you mane to
give me this, Shorsha?”  “It is no longer mine to give,” said I; “it is
yours.”  “And you give it to me for the gratitude you bear me?”  “Yes,”
said I, “and for Dungarvon times of old.”  “Well, Shorsha,” said he, “you
are a broth of a boy, and I’ll take your benefaction—five pounds! och,
Jasus!”  He then put the money in his pocket, and springing up, waved his
hat three times, uttering some old Irish cry; then, sitting down, he took
my hand, and said: “Sure, Shorsha, I’ll be going thither; and when I get
there, it is turning over another leaf I will be; I have learnt a thing
or two abroad; I will become a priest; that’s the trade, Shorsha! and I
will cry out for repale; that’s the cry, Shorsha! and I’ll be a fool no
longer.”  “And what will you do with your table?” said I.  “’Faith, I’ll
be taking it with me, Shorsha; and when I gets to Ireland, I’ll get it
mended, and I will keep it in the house which I shall have; and when I
looks upon it, I will be thinking of all I have undergone.”  “You had
better leave it behind you,” said I; “if you take it with you, you will,
perhaps, take up the thimble trade again before you get to Ireland, and
lose the money I am after giving you.”  “No fear of that, Shorsha; never
will I play on that table again, Shorsha, till I get it mended, which
shall not be till I am a priest, and have a house in which to place it.”

Murtagh and I then went into the town, where we had some refreshment
together, and then parted on our several ways.  I heard nothing of him
for nearly a quarter of a century, when a person who knew him well,
coming from Ireland, and staying at my humble house, told me a great deal
about him.  He reached Ireland in safety, soon reconciled himself with
his Church, and was ordained a priest; in the priestly office he
acquitted himself in a way very satisfactory, upon the whole, to his
superiors, having, as he frequently said, learned wisdom abroad.  The
Popish Church never fails to turn to account any particular gift which
its servants may possess; and discovering soon that Murtagh was endowed
with considerable manual dexterity—proof of which he frequently gave at
cards, and at a singular game which he occasionally played at thimbles—it
selected him as a very fit person to play the part of exorcist; and
accordingly he travelled through a great part of Ireland, casting out
devils from people possessed, which he afterwards exhibited, sometimes in
the shape of rabbits, and occasionally birds and fishes.  There is a holy
island in a lake in Ireland, to which the people resort at a particular
season of the year.  Here Murtagh frequently attended, and it was here
that he performed a cure which will cause his name long to be remembered
in Ireland, delivering a possessed woman of two demons, which he
brandished aloft in his hands, in the shape of two large eels, and
subsequently hurled into the lake, amidst the shouts of an enthusiastic
multitude.  Besides playing the part of an exorcist, he acted that of a
politician with considerable success; he attached himself to the party of
the sire of agitation—“the man of paunch,” and preached and hallooed for
repeal with the loudest and best, as long as repeal was the cry; as soon,
however, as the Whigs attained the helm of Government, and the greater
part of the loaves and fishes—more politely termed the patronage of
Ireland—was placed at the disposition of the priesthood, the tone of
Murtagh, like that of the rest of his brother saggarts, was considerably
softened; he even went so far as to declare that politics were not
altogether consistent with sacerdotal duty; and resuming his exorcisms,
which he had for some time abandoned, he went to the Isle of Holiness,
and delivered a possessed woman of six demons in the shape of white mice.
He, however, again resumed the political mantle in the year 1848, during
the short period of the rebellion of the so-called Young Irelanders.  The
priests, though they apparently sided with this party, did not approve of
it, as it was chiefly formed of ardent young men, fond of what they
termed liberty, and by no means admirers of priestly domination, being
mostly Protestants.  Just before the outbreak of this rebellion, it was
determined between the priests and the —, that this party should be
rendered comparatively innocuous by being deprived of the sinews of
war—in other words, certain sums of money which they had raised for their
enterprise.  Murtagh was deemed the best qualified person in Ireland to
be entrusted with the delicate office of getting their money from them.
Having received his instructions, he invited the leaders to his parsonage
amongst the mountains, under pretence of deliberating with them about
what was to be done.  They arrived there just before nightfall, dressed
in red, yellow and green, the colours so dear to enthusiastic Irishmen;
Murtagh received them with great apparent cordiality, and entered into a
long discourse with them, promising them the assistance of himself and
order, and received from them a profusion of thanks.  After a time
Murtagh, observing, in a jocular tone, that consulting was dull work,
proposed a game of cards, and the leaders, though somewhat surprised,
assenting, he went to a closet, and taking out a pack of cards, laid it
upon the table; it was a strange dirty pack, and exhibited every mark of
having seen very long service.  On one of his guests making some remarks
on the “ancientness” of its appearance, Murtagh observed that there was a
very wonderful history attached to that pack; it had been presented to
him, he said, by a young gentleman, a disciple of his, to whom, in
Dungarvon times of yore, he had taught the Irish language, and of whom he
related some very extraordinary things; he added that he, Murtagh, had
taken it to —, where it had once the happiness of being in the hands of
the Holy Father; by a great misfortune, he did not say what, he had lost
possession of it, and had returned without it, but had some time since
recovered it; a nephew of his, who was being educated at — for a priest,
having found it in a nook of the college, and sent it to him.

Murtagh and the leaders then played various games with this pack, more
especially one called by the initiated “blind hookey,” the result being
that at the end of about two hours the leaders found they had lost
one-half of their funds; they now looked serious, and talked of leaving
the house, but Murtagh begging them to stay supper, they consented.
After supper, at which the guests drank rather freely, Murtagh said that,
as he had not the least wish to win their money, he intended to give them
their revenge; he would not play at cards with them, he added, but at a
funny game of thimbles, at which they would be sure of winning back their
own; then going out, he brought in a table, tall and narrow, on which
placing certain thimbles and a pea, he proposed that they should stake
whatever they pleased on the almost certainty of finding the pea under
the thimbles.  The leaders, after some hesitation, consented, and were at
first eminently successful, winning back the greater part of what they
had lost; after some time, however, Fortune, or rather Murtagh, turned
against them, and then, instead of leaving off, they doubled and trebled
their stakes, and continued doing so until they had lost nearly the whole
of their funds.  Quite furious, they now swore that Murtagh had cheated
them, and insisted on having their property restored to them.  Murtagh,
without a word of reply, went to the door, and shouting into the passage
something in Irish, the room was instantly filled with bogtrotters, each
at least six feet high, with a stout shillelah in his hand.  Murtagh then
turning to his guests, asked them what they meant by insulting an
anointed priest; telling them that it was not for the likes of them to
avenge the wrongs of Ireland.  “I have been clane mistaken in the whole
of ye,” said he, “I supposed ye Irish, but have found, to my sorrow, that
ye are nothing of the kind; purty fellows to pretend to be Irish, when
there is not a word of Irish on the tongue of any of ye, divil a
ha’porth; the illigant young gentleman to whom I taught Irish, in
Dungarvon times of old, though not born in Ireland, has more Irish in him
than any ten of ye.  He is the boy to avenge the wrongs of Ireland, if
ever foreigner is to do it.”  Then saying something to the bogtrotters,
they instantly cleared the room of the young Irelanders, who retired
sadly disconcerted; nevertheless, being very silly young fellows, they
hoisted the standard of rebellion; few, however, joining them, partly
because they had no money, and partly because the priests abused them
with might and main, their rebellion ended in a lamentable manner;
themselves being seized and tried, and though convicted, not deemed of
sufficient importance to be sent to the scaffold, where they might have
had the satisfaction of saying—

                    Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

My visitor, after saying that of the money won, Murtagh retained a
considerable portion, that a part went to the hierarchy for what were
called church purposes, and that the — took the remainder, which it
employed in establishing a newspaper, in which the private characters of
the worthiest and most loyal Protestants in Ireland were traduced and
vilified, concluded his account by observing, that it was the common
belief that Murtagh, having by his services, ecclesiastical and
political, acquired the confidence of the priesthood and favour of the
Government, would, on the first vacancy, be appointed to the high office
of Popish Primate of Ireland.




CHAPTER XLVII.


LEAVING Horncastle I bent my steps in the direction of the east.  I
walked at a brisk rate, and late in the evening reached a large town,
situate at the entrance of an extensive firth, or arm of the sea, which
prevented my farther progress eastward.  Sleeping that night in the
suburbs of the town, I departed early next morning in the direction of
the south.  A walk of about twenty miles brought me to another large
town, situated on a river, where I again turned towards the east.  At the
end of the town I was accosted by a fiery-faced individual, somewhat
under the middle size, dressed as a recruiting sergeant.

“Young man,” said the recruiting sergeant, “you are just the kind of
person to serve the Honourable East India Company.”

“I had rather the Honourable Company should serve me,” said I.

“Of course, young man.  Well, the Honourable East India Company shall
serve you—that’s reasonable.  Here, take this shilling; ’t is
service-money.  The Honourable Company engages to serve you, and you the
Honourable Company; both parties shall be thus served; that’s just and
reasonable.”

“And what must I do for the Company?”

“Only go to India; that’s all.”

“And what should I do in India?”

“Fight, my brave boy! fight, my youthful hero!”

“What kind of country is India?”

“The finest country in the world!  Rivers, bigger than the Ouse.  Hills,
higher than anything near Spalding!  Trees—you never saw such trees!
Fruits—you never saw such fruits!”

“And the people—what kind of folk are they?”

“Pah!  Kauloes—blacks—a set of rascals not worth regarding.”

“Kauloes!” said I; “blacks!”

“Yes,” said the recruiting sergeant; “and they call us lolloes, which in
their beastly gibberish, means reds.”

“Lolloes!” said I; “reds!”

“Yes,” said the recruiting sergeant, “kauloes and lolloes; and all the
lolloes have to do is to kick and cut down the kauloes, and take from
them their rupees, which mean silver money.  Why do you stare so?”

“Why,” said I, “this is the very language of Mr. Petulengro.”

“Mr. Pet—?”

“Yes,” said I, “and Tawno Chikno.”

“Tawno Chik—?  I say, young fellow, I don’t like your way of speaking;
no, nor your way of looking.  You are mad, sir; you are mad; and what’s
this?  Why your hair is grey!  You won’t do for the Honourable
Company—they like red.  I’m glad I didn’t give you the shilling.
Good-day to you.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I as I proceeded rapidly along a broad
causeway, in the direction of the east, “if Mr. Petulengro and Tawno
Chikno came originally from India.  I think I’ll go there.”

                                * * * * *

  [_End of Vol. II._, _and of the fifth and last of the Autobiography_.]

                                * * * * *




APPENDIX.


CHAPTER I.
A WORD FOR _LAVENGRO_.


[Shortly after the publication of the first three volumes of the present
work, the author received various letters from individuals, in which he
was requested to state what might be the drift and tendency of
_Lavengro_.  The author cannot help thinking it somewhat extraordinary,
that, after a preface in which he was particularly careful to tell the
public what the book was, and the object with which it was written, any
fresh information with respect to it should be required of him.  As,
however, all the letters which he has received have been written in a
friendly spirit, he will now endeavour to be a little more explicit than
on a former occasion.]

_Lavengro_ is the history up to a certain period of one of rather a
peculiar mind and system of nerves, with an exterior shy and cold, under
which lurk much curiosity, especially with regard to what is wild and
extraordinary, a considerable quantity of energy and industry, and an
unconquerable love of independence.  It narrates his earliest dreams and
feelings, dwells with minuteness on the ways, words and characters of his
father, mother and brother, lingers on the occasional resting-places of
his wandering half-military childhood, describes the gradual hardening of
his bodily frame by robust exercises, his successive struggles, after his
family and himself have settled down in a small local capital, to obtain
knowledge of every kind, but more particularly philological lore; his
visits to the tent of the Romany chal, and the parlour of the
Anglo-German philosopher; the effect produced upon his character by his
flinging himself into contact with people all widely differing from each
other, but all extraordinary; his reluctance to settle down to the
ordinary pursuits of life; his struggles after moral truth; his glimpses
of God and the obscuration of the Divine Being, to his mind’s eye; and
his being cast upon the world of London by the death of his father, at
the age of nineteen.  In the world within a world, the world of London,
it shows him playing his part for some time as he best can, in the
capacity of a writer for reviews and magazines, and describes what he saw
and underwent whilst labouring in that capacity; it represents him,
however, as never forgetting that he is the son of a brave but poor
gentleman, and that if he is a hack author, he is likewise a scholar.  It
shows him doing no dishonourable jobs, and proves that if he occasionally
associates with low characters, he does so chiefly to gratify the
curiosity of a scholar.  In his conversations with the apple-woman of
London Bridge, the scholar is ever apparent, so again in his acquaintance
with the man of the table; for the book is no raker up of the uncleanness
of London, and if it gives what at first sight appears refuse, it
invariably shows that a pearl of some kind, generally a philological one,
is contained amongst it; it shows its hero always accompanied by his love
of independence, scorning in the greatest poverty to receive favours from
anybody, and describes him finally rescuing himself from peculiarly
miserable circumstances by writing a book, an original book, within a
week, even as Johnson is said to have written his _Rasselas_, and
Beckford his _Vathek_, and tells how, leaving London, he betakes himself
to the roads and fields.

In the country it shows him leading a life of roving adventure, becoming
tinker, gypsy, postillion, ostler; associating with various kinds of
people, chiefly of the lower classes, whose ways and habits are
described; but, though leading this erratic life, we gather from the book
that his habits are neither vulgar nor vicious, that he still follows to
a certain extent his favourite pursuits, hunting after strange
characters, or analysing strange words and names.  At the conclusion of
the fifth volume, which terminates the first part of the history, it
hints that he is about to quit his native land on a grand philological
expedition.

Those who read this book with attention—and the author begs to observe
that it would be of little utility to read it hurriedly—may derive much
information with respect to matters of philology and literature; it will
be found treating of most of the principal languages from Ireland to
China, and of the literature which they contain; and it is particularly
minute with regard to the ways, manners and speech of the English section
of the most extraordinary and mysterious clan or tribe of people to be
found in the whole world—the children of Roma.  But it contains matters
of much more importance than anything in connection with philology, and
the literature and manners of nations.  Perhaps no work was ever offered
to the public in which the kindness and providence of God have been set
forth by more striking examples, or the machinations of priestcraft been
more truly and lucidly exposed, or the dangers which result to a nation
when it abandons itself to effeminacy, and a rage for what is novel and
fashionable, than the present.

With respect to the kindness and providence of God, are they not
exemplified in the case of the old apple-woman and her son?  These are
beings in many points bad, but with warm affections, who, after an
agonising separation, are restored to each other, but not until the
hearts of both are changed and purified by the influence of affliction.
Are they not exemplified in the case of the rich gentleman, who touches
objects in order to avert the evil chance?  This being has great gifts
and many amiable qualities, but does not everybody see that his besetting
sin is selfishness?  He fixes his mind on certain objects, and takes
inordinate interest in them, because they are his own, and those very
objects, through the providence of God, which is kindness in disguise,
become snakes and scorpions to whip him.  Tired of various pursuits, he
at last becomes an author, and publishes a book, which is very much
admired, and which he loves with his usual inordinate affection; the
book, consequently becomes a viper to him, and at last he flings it aside
and begins another; the book, however, is not flung aside by the world,
who are benefited by it, deriving pleasure and knowledge from it: so the
man who merely wrote to gratify self, has already done good to others,
and got himself an honourable name.  But God will not allow that man to
put that book under his head and use it as a pillow: the book has become
a viper to him, he has banished it, and is about another, which he
finishes and gives to the world; it is a better book than the first, and
every one is delighted with it; but it proves to the writer a scorpion,
because he loves it with inordinate affection; but it was good for the
world that he produced this book, which stung him as a scorpion.  Yes;
and good for himself, for the labour of writing it amused him, and
perhaps prevented him from dying of apoplexy; but the book is banished,
and another is begun, and herein, again, is the providence of God
manifested; the man has the power of producing still, and God determines
that he shall give to the world what remains in his brain, which he would
not do, had he been satisfied with the second work; he would have gone to
sleep upon that as he would upon the first, for the man is selfish and
lazy.  In his account of what he suffered during the composition of this
work, his besetting sin of selfishness is manifest enough; the work on
which he is engaged occupies his every thought, it is his idol, his
deity, it shall be all his own, he won’t borrow a thought from any one
else, and he is so afraid lest, when he publishes it, that it should be
thought that he had borrowed from any one, that he is continually
touching objects, his nervous system, owing to his extreme selfishness,
having become partly deranged.  He is left touching, in order to banish
the evil chance from his book, his deity.  No more of his history is
given; but does the reader think that God will permit that man to go to
sleep on his third book, however extraordinary it may be?  Assuredly not.
God will not allow that man to rest till he has cured him to a certain
extent of his selfishness, which has, however, hitherto been very useful
to the world.

Then, again, in the tale of Peter Williams, is not the hand of Providence
to be seen?  This person commits a sin in his childhood, utters words of
blasphemy, the remembrance of which, in after life, preying upon his
imagination, unfits him for quiet pursuits, to which he seems to have
been naturally inclined; but for the remembrance of that sin, he would
have been Peter Williams the quiet, respectable Welsh farmer, somewhat
fond of reading the ancient literature of his country in winter evenings,
after his work was done.  God, however, was aware that there was
something in Peter Williams to entitle him to assume a higher calling; he
therefore permits this sin, which, though a childish affair, was yet a
sin, and committed deliberately, to prey upon his mind till he becomes at
last an instrument in the hand of God, a humble Paul, the great preacher,
Peter Williams, who, though he considers himself a reprobate and a
castaway, instead of having recourse to drinking in mad desperation, as
many do who consider themselves reprobates, goes about Wales and England
preaching the word of God, dilating on his power and majesty, and
visiting the sick and afflicted, until God sees fit to restore to him his
peace of mind; which he does not do, however, until that mind is in a
proper condition to receive peace, till it has been purified by the pain
of the one idea which has so long been permitted to riot in his brain;
which pain, however, an angel, in the shape of a gentle, faithful wife,
had occasionally alleviated; for God is merciful even in the blows which
He bestoweth, and will not permit any one to be tempted beyond the
measure which he can support.  And here it will be as well for the reader
to ponder upon the means by which the Welsh preacher is relieved from his
mental misery: he is not relieved by a text from the Bible, by the words
of consolation and wisdom addressed to him by his angel-minded wife, nor
by the preaching of one yet more eloquent than himself; but by a
quotation made by Lavengro from the life of Mary Flanders, cut-purse and
prostitute, which life Lavengro had been in the habit of reading at the
stall of his old friend the apple-woman, on London Bridge, who had
herself been very much addicted to the perusal of it, though without any
profit whatever.  Should the reader be dissatisfied with the manner in
which Peter Williams is made to find relief, the author would wish to
answer, that the Almighty frequently accomplishes his purposes by means
which appear very singular to the eyes of men, and at the same time to
observe that the manner in which that relief is obtained, is calculated
to read a lesson to the proud, fanciful and squeamish, who are ever in a
fidget lest they should be thought to mix with low society or to bestow a
moment’s attention on publications which are not what is called of a
perfectly unobjectionable character.  Had not Lavengro formed the
acquaintance of the old apple-woman on London Bridge, he would not have
had an opportunity of reading the life of Mary Flanders; and,
consequently, of storing in a memory, which never forgets anything, a
passage which contained a balm for the agonised mind of poor Peter
Williams.  The best medicines are not always found in the finest shops.
Suppose, for example, if, instead of going to London Bridge to read, he
had gone to Albemarle Street, and had received from the proprietors of
the literary establishment in that very fashionable street, permission to
read the publications on the tables of the saloons there, does the reader
think he would have met any balm in those publications for the case of
Peter Williams? does the reader suppose that he would have found Mary
Flanders there?  He would certainly have found that highly
unobjectionable publication _Rasselas_, and the _Spectator_, or _Lives of
Royal and Illustrious Personages_, but, of a surety, no Mary Flanders; so
when Lavengro met with Peter Williams, he would have been unprovided with
a balm to cure his ulcerated mind, and have parted from him in a way not
quite so satisfactory as the manner in which he took his leave of him;
for it is certain that he might have read _Rasselas_, and all the other
unexceptionable works to be found in the library of Albemarle Street,
over and over again, before he would have found any cure in them for the
case of Peter Williams.  Therefore the author requests the reader to drop
any squeamish nonsense he may wish to utter about Mary Flanders, and the
manner in which Peter Williams was cured.

And now with respect to the old man who knew Chinese, but could not tell
what was o’clock.  This individual was a man whose natural powers would
have been utterly buried and lost beneath a mountain of sloth and
laziness had not God determined otherwise.  He had in his early years
chalked out for himself a plan of life in which he had his own ease and
self-indulgence solely in view; he had no particular bad passions to
gratify, he only wished to lead an easy, quiet life, just as if the
business of this mighty world could be carried on by innocent people fond
of ease and quiet, or that Providence would permit innocent, quiet drones
to occupy any portion of the earth and to cumber it.  God had at any rate
decreed that this man should not cumber it as a drone.  He brings a
certain affliction upon him, the agony of which produces that terrible
whirling of the brain which, unless it is stopped in time, produces
madness; he suffers indescribable misery for a period, until one morning
his attention is arrested, and his curiosity is aroused, by certain
Chinese letters on a teapot; his curiosity increases more and more, and,
of course, in proportion as his curiosity is increased with respect to
the Chinese marks, the misery in his brain, produced by his mental
affliction, decreases.  He sets about learning Chinese, and after the
lapse of many years, during which his mind subsides into a certain state
of tranquillity, he acquires sufficient knowledge of Chinese to be able
to translate with ease the inscriptions to be found on its singular
crockery.  Yes, the laziest of human beings, through the providence of
God, a being, too, of rather inferior capacity, acquires the written part
of a language so difficult that, as Lavengro said on a former occasion,
none but the cleverest people in Europe, the French, are able to acquire
it.  But God did not intend that man should merely acquire Chinese.  He
intended that he should be of use to his species, and by the
instrumentality of the first Chinese inscription which he translates, the
one which first arrested his curiosity, he is taught the duties of
hospitality; yes, by means of an inscription in the language of a people,
who have scarcely an idea of hospitality themselves, God causes the
slothful man to play a useful and beneficent part in the world, relieving
distressed wanderers, and, amongst others, Lavengro himself.  But a
striking indication of the man’s surprising sloth is still apparent in
what he omits to do; he has learnt Chinese, the most difficult of
languages, and he practises acts of hospitality, because he believes
himself enjoined to do so by the Chinese inscription, but he cannot tell
the hour of the day by the clock within his house; he can get on, he
thinks, very well without being able to do so; therefore, from this one
omission, it is easy to come to a conclusion as to what a sluggard’s part
the man would have played in life, but for the dispensation of
Providence; nothing but extreme agony could have induced such a man to do
anything useful.  He still continues, with all he has acquired, with all
his usefulness, and with all his innocence of character, without any
proper sense of religion, though he has attained a rather advanced age.
If it be observed, that this want of religion is a great defect in the
story, the author begs leave to observe that he cannot help it.  Lavengro
relates the lives of people so far as they were placed before him, but no
further.  It was certainly a great defect in so good a man to be without
religion; it was likewise a great defect in so learned a man not to be
able to tell what was o’clock.  It is probable that God, in His loving
kindness, will not permit that man to go out of the world without
religion; who knows but some powerful minister of the Church, full of
zeal for the glory of God, will illume that man’s dark mind; perhaps some
clergyman will come to the parish who will visit him and teach him his
duty to his God.  Yes, it is very probable that such a man, before he
dies, will have been made to love his God; whether he will ever learn to
know what’s o’clock, is another matter.  It is probable that he will go
out of the world without knowing what’s o’clock.  It is not so necessary
to be able to tell the time of day by the clock as to know one’s God
through His inspired word; a man cannot get to heaven without religion,
but a man can get there very comfortably without knowing what’s o’clock.

But, above all, the care and providence of God are manifested in the case
of Lavengro himself, by the manner in which he is enabled to make his way
in the world up to a certain period, without falling a prey either to
vice or poverty.  In his history, there is a wonderful illustration of
part of the text, quoted by his mother: “I have been young, but now am
old, yet never saw I the righteous forsaken, or his seed begging bread”.
He is the son of good and honourable parents, but at the critical period
of life, that of entering into the world, he finds himself without any
earthly friend to help him, yet he manages to make his way; he does not
become a Captain in the Life Guards, it is true, nor does he get into
Parliament, nor does the last volume conclude in the most satisfactory
and unobjectionable manner, by his marrying a dowager countess, as that
wise man Addison did, or by his settling down as a great country
gentleman, perfectly happy and contented, like the very moral Roderick
Random, or the equally estimable Peregrine Pickle; he is hack author,
gypsy, tinker and postillion, yet, upon the whole, he seems to be quite
as happy as the younger sons of most earls, to have as high feelings of
honour; and when the reader loses sight of him, he has money in his
pocket honestly acquired, to enable him to commence a journey quite as
laudable as those which the younger sons of earls generally undertake.
Surely all this is a manifestation of the kindness and providence of God;
and yet he is not a religious person; up to the time when the reader
loses sight of him, he is decidedly not a religious person; he has
glimpses, it is true, of that God who does not forsake him, but he prays
very seldom, is not fond of going to church; and, though he admires Tate
and Brady’s version of the Psalms, his admiration is rather caused by the
beautiful poetry which that version contains than the religion; yet his
tale is not finished—like the tale of the gentleman who touched objects,
and that of the old man who knew Chinese without knowing what was
o’clock; perhaps, like them, he is destined to become religious, and to
have, instead of occasional glimpses frequent and distinct views of his
God; yet, though he may become religious, it is hardly to be expected
that he will become a very precise and straightlaced person; it is
probable that he will retain, with his scholarship, something of his
gypsyism, his predilection for the hammer and tongs, and perhaps some
inclination to put on certain gloves, not white kid, with any friend who
may be inclined for a little old English diversion, and a readiness to
take a glass of ale, with plenty of malt in it, and as little hop as may
well be—ale at least two years old—with the aforesaid friend, when the
diversion is over; for, as it is the belief of the writer that a person
may get to heaven very comfortably without knowing what’s o’clock, so it
is his belief that he will not be refused admission there, because to the
last he has been fond of healthy and invigorating exercises, and felt a
willingness to partake of any of the good things which it pleases the
Almighty to put within the reach of his children during their sojourn
upon earth.



CHAPTER II.
ON PRIESTCRAFT.


THE writer will now say a few words about priestcraft, and the
machinations of Rome, and will afterwards say something about himself,
and his motives for writing against them.

With respect to Rome, and her machinations, much valuable information can
be obtained from particular parts of _Lavengro_, and its sequel.  Shortly
before the time when the hero of the book is launched into the world, the
Popish agitation in England had commenced.  The Popish propaganda had
determined to make a grand attempt on England; Popish priests were
scattered over the land, doing the best they could to make converts to
the old superstition.  With the plans of Rome, and her hopes, and the
reasons on which those hopes are grounded, the hero of the book becomes
acquainted, during an expedition which he makes into the country, from
certain conversations which he holds with a priest in a dingle, in which
the hero had taken up his residence; he likewise learns from the same
person much of the secret history of the Roman See, and many matters
connected with the origin and progress of the Popish superstition.  The
individual with whom he holds these conversations is a learned,
intelligent, but highly-unprincipled person, of a character however very
common amongst the priests of Rome, who in general are people void of all
religion, and who, notwithstanding they are tied to Rome by a band which
they have neither the power nor wish to break, turn her and her
practices, over their cups with their confidential associates, to a
ridicule only exceeded by that to which they turn those who become the
dupes of their mistress and themselves.

It is now necessary that the writer should say something with respect to
himself, and his motives for waging war against Rome.  First of all, with
respect to himself, he wishes to state, that to the very last moment of
his life, he will do and say all that in his power may be to hold up to
contempt and execration the priestcraft and practices of Rome; there is,
perhaps, no person better acquainted than himself, not even among the
choicest spirits of the priesthood, with the origin and history of
Popery.  From what he saw and heard of Popery in England, at a very early
period of his life, his curiosity was aroused, and he spared himself no
trouble, either by travel or study, to make himself well acquainted with
it in all its phases, the result being a hatred of it, which he hopes and
trusts he shall retain till the moment when his spirit quits the body.
Popery is the great lie of the world; a source from which more misery and
social degradation have flowed upon the human race, than from all the
other sources from which those evils come.  It is the oldest of all
superstitions; and though in Europe it assumes the name of Christianity,
it existed and flourished amidst the Himalayan hills at least two
thousand years before the real Christ was born in Bethlehem of Judea; in
a word, it is Buddhism; and let those who may be disposed to doubt this
assertion, compare the Popery of Rome, and the superstitious practices of
its followers, with the doings of the priests who surround the grand
Lama; and the mouthings, bellowing, turnings round, and, above all, the
penances of the followers of Buddh with those of Roman devotees.  But he
is not going to dwell here on this point; it is dwelt upon at tolerable
length in the text, and has likewise been handled with extraordinary
power by the pen of the gifted but irreligious Volney; moreover, the
_élite_ of the Roman priesthood are perfectly well aware that their
system is nothing but Buddhism under a slight disguise, and the European
world in general has entertained for some time past an inkling of the
fact.

And now a few words with respect to the motives of the writer for
expressing a hatred for Rome.

This expressed abhorrence of the author for Rome might be entitled to
little regard, provided it were possible to attribute it to any
self-interested motive.  There have been professed enemies of Rome, or of
this or that system; but their professed enmity may frequently be traced
to some cause which does them little credit; but the writer of these
lines has no motive, and can have no motive, for his enmity to Rome, save
the abhorrence of an honest heart for what is false, base and cruel.  A
certain clergyman wrote with much heat against the <DW7>s in the time of
— {311a} who was known to favour the <DW7>s, but was not expected to
continue long in office, and whose supposed successor, {311b} the person,
indeed, who did succeed him, was thought to be hostile to the <DW7>s.
This divine, who obtained a rich benefice from the successor of — {311c}
who during —’s {311d} time had always opposed him in everything he
proposed to do, and who, of course, during that time affected to be very
inimical to Popery—this divine might well be suspected of having a motive
equally creditable for writing against the <DW7>s, as that which induced
him to write for them, as soon as his patron, who eventually did
something more for him, {312a} had espoused their cause; but what motive,
save an honest one, can the present writer have, for expressing an
abhorrence of Popery?  He is no clergyman, and consequently can expect
neither benefices nor bishoprics, supposing it were the fashion of the
present, or likely to be the fashion of any future administration to
reward clergymen with benefices or bishoprics, who, in the defence of the
religion of their country write, or shall write, against Popery, and not
to reward those who write, or shall write, in favour of it, and all its
nonsense and abominations.

“But if not a clergyman, he is the servant of a certain society which has
the overthrow of Popery in view, and therefore,” etc.  This assertion,
which has been frequently made, is incorrect, even as those who have made
it probably knew it to be.  He is the servant of no society whatever.  He
eats his own bread, {312b} and is one of the very few men in England who
are independent in every sense of the word.

It is true he went to Spain with the colours of that society on his
hat—oh! the blood glows in his veins! oh! the marrow awakes in his old
bones when he thinks of what he accomplished in Spain in the cause of
religion and civilisation with the colours of that society in his hat,
and its weapon in his hand, even the sword of the word of God; how with
that weapon he hewed left and right, making the priests fly before him,
and run away squeaking: “_Vaya_! _qué demonio es este_!”  Ay, and when he
thinks of the plenty of Bible swords which he left behind him, destined
to prove, and which have already proved, pretty calthrops in the heels of
Popery.  “Halloo!  Batuschca,” he exclaimed the other night on reading an
article in a newspaper; {312c} “what do you think of the present doings
in Spain?  Your old friend the zingaro, the gitano who rode about Spain,
to say nothing of Galicia, with the Greek Buchini behind him as his
squire, had a hand in bringing them about; there are many brave Spaniards
connected with the present movement {312d} who took Bibles from his
hands, and read them and profited by them, learning from the inspired
page the duties of one man towards another, and the real value of a
priesthood and their head, who set at nought the Word of God, and think
only of their own temporal interests; ay, and who learned Gitano—their
own Gitano—from the lips of the London Caloró, and also songs in the said
Gitano, very fit to dumbfounder your semi-Buddhist priests when they
attempt to bewilder people’s minds with their school-logic and
pseudo-ecclesiastical nonsense, songs such as—

          “‘Un Erajai
    Sinaba chibando un sermon—’.” {313}

But with that society he has long since ceased to have any connection; he
bade it adieu with feelings of love and admiration more than fourteen
years ago, so in continuing to assault Popery, no hopes of interest
founded on that society can sway his mind—interest! who, with worldly
interest in view, would ever have anything to do with that society?  It
is poor and supported, like its founder Christ, by poor people; and so
far from having political influence, it is in such disfavour, and has
ever been, with the dastardly great, to whom the government of England
has for many years past been confided, that the having borne its colours
only for a month would be sufficient to exclude any man, whatever his
talents, his learning, or his courage may be, from the slightest chance
of being permitted to serve his country either for fee, or without.  A
fellow who unites in himself the bankrupt trader, the broken author, or
rather book-maker, and the laughed-down single speech spouter of the
House of Commons, may look forward, always supposing that at one time he
has been a foaming radical, to the government of an important colony.
Ay, an ancient fox who has lost his tail may, provided he has a score of
radical friends, who will swear that he can bark Chinese, though Chinese
is not barked but sung, be forced upon a Chinese colony, though it is
well known that to have lost one’s tail, is considered by the Chinese in
general as an irreparable infamy, whilst to have been once connected with
a certain society, to which, to its honour be it said, all the radical
party are vehemently hostile, would be quite sufficient to keep any one
not only from a government, but something much less, even though he could
translate the rhymed _Sessions of Hariri_, and were versed, still
retaining his tail, in the two languages in which Kien-Loung wrote his
Eulogium on Moukden, that piece which, translated by Amyot, the learned
Jesuit, won the applause of the celebrated Voltaire.

No! were the author influenced by hopes of fee or reward, he would,
instead of writing against Popery, write for it; all the trumpery
titled—he will not call them great again—would then be for him, and their
masters the radicals, with their hosts of newspapers, would be for him,
more especially if he would commence maligning the society whose colours
he had once on his hat—a society which, as the priest says in the text,
is one of the very few Protestant institutions for which the Popish
Church entertains any fear, and consequently respect, as it respects
nothing which it does not fear.  The writer said that certain “rulers”
would never forgive him for having been connected with that society; he
went perhaps too far in saying “never”.  It is probable that they would
take him into favour on one condition, which is, that he should turn his
pen and his voice against that society; such a mark “of a better way of
thinking,” would perhaps induce them to give him a government, nearly as
good as that which they gave to a certain ancient radical fox at the
intercession of his radical friends (who were bound to keep him from the
pauper’s kennel), after he had promised to foam, bark and snarl at
corruption no more; he might even entertain hopes of succeeding, nay, of
superseding, the ancient creature in his government; but even were he as
badly off as he is well off, he would do no such thing.  He would rather
exist on crusts and water; he has often done so, and been happy; nay, he
would rather starve than be a rogue—for even the feeling of starvation is
happiness compared with what he feels who knows himself to be a rogue,
provided he has any feeling at all.  What is the use of a mitre or
knighthood to a man who has betrayed his principles?  What is the use of
a gilt collar, nay, even of a pair of scarlet breeches, to a fox who has
lost his tail?  Oh! the horror which haunts the mind of the fox who has
lost his tail; and with reason, for his very mate loathes him and more
especially if, like himself, she has lost her brush.  Oh! the horror
which haunts the mind of the two-legged rogue who has parted with his
principles, or those which he professed—for what?  We’ll suppose a
government.  What’s the use of a government, if, the next day after you
have received it, you are obliged for very shame to scurry off to it with
the hoot of every honest man sounding in your ears?

    “Lightly liar leaped and away ran.”

                                                           —PIERS PLOWMAN.

But bigotry, it has been said, makes the author write against Popery; and
thorough-going bigotry, indeed, will make a person say or do anything.
But the writer is a very pretty bigot truly!  Where will the public find
traces of bigotry in anything he has written?  He has written against
Rome with all his heart, with all his mind, with all his soul, and with
all his strength; but as a person may be quite honest, and speak and
write against Rome, in like manner he may speak and write against her,
and be quite free from bigotry; though it is impossible for any one but a
bigot or a bad man to write or speak in her praise; her doctrines,
actions and machinations being what they are.

Bigotry!  The author was born, and has always continued, in the wrong
Church for bigotry, the quiet, unpretending Church of England; a Church
which, had it been a bigoted Church, and not long suffering almost to a
fault, might with its opportunities, as the priest says in the text, have
stood in a very different position from that which it occupies at
present.  No! let those who are in search of bigotry, seek for it in a
Church very different from the inoffensive Church of England, which never
encourages cruelty or calumny.  Let them seek for it amongst the members
of the Church of Rome, and more especially amongst those who have
renegaded to it.  There is nothing, however false and horrible, which a
pervert to Rome will not say for his Church, and which his priests will
not encourage him in saying; and there is nothing, however horrible—the
more horrible indeed and revolting to human nature, the more eager he
would be to do it—which he will not do for it and which his priests will
not encourage him in doing.

Of the readiness which converts to Popery exhibit to sacrifice all the
ties of blood and affection on the shrine of their newly-adopted
religion, there is a curious illustration in the work of Luigi Pulci.
This man, who was born in Florence in the year 1432, and who was deeply
versed in the Bible, composed a poem, called the _Morgante Maggiore_,
which he recited at the table of Lorenzo de’ Medici, the great patron of
Italian genius.  It is a mock-heroic and religious poem, in which the
legends of knight-errantry, and of the Popish Church, are turned to
unbounded ridicule.  The pretended hero of it is a converted giant,
called Morgante; though his adventures do not occupy the twentieth part
of the poem, the principal personages being Charlemagne, Orlando, and his
cousin Rinaldo of Montalban.  Morgante has two brothers, both of them
giants, and in the first canto of the poem, Morgante is represented with
his brothers as carrying on a feud with the abbot and monks of a certain
convent, built upon the confines of heathenesse; the giants being in the
habit of flinging down stones, or rather huge rocks, on the convent.
Orlando, however, who is banished from the court of Charlemagne, arriving
at the convent, undertakes to destroy them, and, accordingly, kills
Passamonte and Alabastro, and converts Morgante, whose mind had been
previously softened by a vision, in which the “Blessed Virgin” figures.
No sooner is he converted than, as a sign of his penitence, what does he
do, but hastens and cuts off the hands of his two brothers, saying—

    “Io vo’ tagliar le mani à tutti quanti
    E porterolle à que’ monaci santi”. {316a}

And he does cut off the hands of his brethren, and carries them to the
abbot, who blesses him for so doing.  Pulci here is holding up to
ridicule and execration the horrid butchery or betrayal of friends by
popish converts, and the encouragement they receive from the priest.  No
sooner is a person converted to Popery, than his principal thought is how
he can bring the hands and feet of his brethren, however harmless they
may be, and different from the giants, to the “holy priests,” who, if he
manages to do so, never fail to praise him, saying to the miserable
wretch, as the abbot said to Morgante:—

    “Tu sarai or perfetto e veto amico
    A Cristo, quauto tu gli eri nemico”. {316b}

Can the English public deny the justice of Pulci’s illustration, after
something which it has lately witnessed?  Has it not seen equivalents for
the hands and feet of brothers carried by popish perverts to the “holy
priests,” and has it not seen the manner in which the offering has been
received?  Let those who are in quest of Bigotry seek for it among the
perverts to Rome, and not amongst those who, born in the pale of the
Church of England, have always continued in it.



CHAPTER III.
ON FOREIGN NONSENSE.


WITH respect to the third point, various lessons which the book reads to
the nation at large, and which it would be well for the nation to ponder
and profit by.

There are many species of nonsense to which the nation is much addicted,
and of which the perusal of _Lavengro_ ought to give them a wholesome
shame.  First of all, with respect to the foreign nonsense so prevalent
now in England.  The hero is a scholar; but, though possessed of a great
many tongues, he affects to be neither Frenchman, nor German, nor this or
that foreigner; he is one who loves his country, and the language and
literature of his country, and speaks up for each and all when there is
occasion to do so.  Now what is the case with nine out of ten amongst
those of the English who study foreign languages?  No sooner have they
picked up a smattering of this or that speech than they begin to abuse
their own country, and everything connected with it, more especially its
language.  This is particularly the case with those who call themselves
German students.  It is said, and the writer believes with truth, that
when a woman falls in love with a particularly ugly fellow, she squeezes
him with ten times more zest than she would a handsome one, if captivated
by him.  So it is with these German students; no sooner have they taken
German in hand than there is nothing like German.  Oh, the dear,
delightful German!  How proud I am that it is now my own, and that its
divine literature is within my reach!  And all this whilst mumbling the
most uncouth speech, and crunching the most crabbed literature in Europe.
The writer is not an exclusive admirer of everything English; he does not
advise his country people never to go abroad, never to study foreign
languages, and he does not wish to persuade them that there is nothing
beautiful or valuable in foreign literature; he only wishes that they
would not make themselves fools with respect to foreign people, foreign
languages or reading; that if they chance to have been in Spain, and have
picked up a little Spanish, they would not affect the airs of Spaniards;
that if males they would not make Tom-fools of themselves by sticking
cigars into their mouths, dressing themselves in _zamarras_, and saying,
_carajo_! {318} and if females that they would not make zanies of
themselves by sticking cigars into their mouths, flinging mantillas over
their heads, and by saying _carai_, and perhaps _carajo_ too; or if they
have been in France or Italy, and have picked up a little French or
Italian, they would not affect to be French or Italians; and
particularly, after having been a month or two in Germany, or picked up a
little German in England, they would not make themselves foolish about
everything German, as the Anglo-German in the book does—a real character,
the founder of the Anglo-German school in England, and the cleverest
Englishman who ever talked or wrote encomiastic nonsense about Germany
and the Germans.  Of all infatuations connected with what is foreign, the
infatuation about everything that is German, to a certain extent
prevalent in England, is assuredly the most ridiculous.  One can find
something like a palliation for people making themselves somewhat foolish
about particular languages, literatures and people.  The Spanish
certainly is a noble language, and there is something wild and
captivating in the Spanish character, and its literature contains the
grand book of the world.  French is a manly language.  The French are the
great martial people in the world; and French literature is admirable in
many respects.  Italian is a sweet language, and of beautiful
simplicity—its literature perhaps the first in the world.  The
Italians!—wonderful men have sprung up in Italy.  Italy is not merely
famous for painters, poets, musicians, singers and linguists—the greatest
linguist the world ever saw, the late Cardinal Mezzofanti, was an
Italian; but it is celebrated for men—men emphatically speaking: Columbus
was an Italian, Alexander Farnese was an Italian, so was the mightiest of
the mighty, Napoleon Bonaparte; but the German language, German
literature, and the Germans!  The writer has already stated his opinion
with respect to German; he does not speak from ignorance or prejudice; he
has heard German spoken, and many other languages.  German literature!
He does not speak from ignorance, he has read that and many a literature,
and he repeats—however, he acknowledges that there is one fine poem in
the German language, that poem is the _Oberon_; a poem, by-the-bye,
ignored by the Germans—a speaking fact—and of course, by the
Anglo-Germanists.  The Germans! he has been amongst them, and amongst
many other nations, and confesses that his opinion of the Germans, as
men, is a very low one.  Germany, it is true, has produced one very great
man, the monk who fought the Pope, and nearly knocked him down; but this
man his country-men—a telling fact—affect to despise, and, of course, the
Anglo-Germanists: the father of Anglo-Germanism was very fond of
inveighing against Luther.

The madness, or rather foolery, of the English for foreign customs,
dresses and languages, is not an affair of to-day, or yesterday—it is of
very ancient date, and was very properly exposed nearly three centuries
ago by one Andrew Borde, who under the picture of a “Naked man, with a
pair of shears in one hand, and a roll of cloth in the other,” inserted
the following lines along with others:—{319}

    I am an Englishman, and naked I stand here,
    Musing in my mind what garment I shall weare;
    For now I will weare this, and now I will weare that,
    Now I will weare, I cannot tell what.
    All new fashions be pleasant to mee,
    I will have them, whether I thrive or thee;
    What do I care if all the world me fail?
    I will have a garment [shall] reach to my taile;
    Then am I a minion, for I weare the new guise.
    The next yeare after I hope to be wise,
    Not only in wearing my gorgeous array,
    For I will go to learning a whole summer’s day,
    I will learn Latine, Hebrew, Greek, and French,
    And I will learn Dutch, sitting on my bench.
    I had no peere if to myself I were true,
    Because I am not so, divers times do I rue.
    Yet I lacke nothing, I have all things at will
    If I were wise and would hold myself still,
    And meddle with no matters but to me pertaining,
    But ever to be true to God and my King.
    But I have such matters rowling in my pate,
       That I will and do — — I cannot tell what, etc.



CHAPTER IV.
ON GENTILITY NONSENSE.


What is gentility?  People in different stations in England entertain
different ideas of what is genteel, {320} but it must be something
gorgeous, glittering or tawdry, to be considered genteel by any of them.
The beau-ideal of the English aristocracy, of course with some
exceptions, is some young fellow with an imperial title, a military
personage of course, for what is military is so particularly genteel,
with flaming epaulets, a cocked hat and plume, a prancing charger, and a
band of fellows called generals and colonels, with flaming epaulets,
cocked hats and plumes, and prancing chargers vapouring behind him.  It
was but lately that the daughter of an English marquis was heard to say,
that the sole remaining wish of her heart—she had known misfortunes, and
was not far from fifty—was to be introduced to—whom?  The Emperor of
Austria!  The sole remaining wish of the heart of one who ought to have
been thinking of the grave and judgment, was to be introduced to the
miscreant who had caused the blood of noble Hungarian females to be
whipped out of their shoulders, for no other crime than devotion to their
country, and its tall and heroic sons.  The middle classes—of course
there are some exceptions—admire the aristocracy, and consider them
pinks, the aristocracy who admire the Emperor of Austria, and adored the
Emperor of Russia, till he became old, ugly and unfortunate, when their
adoration instantly terminated; for what is more ungenteel than age,
ugliness and misfortune!  The beau-ideal with those of the lower classes,
with peasants and mechanics, is some flourishing railroad contractor:
look, for example, how they worship Mr. Flamson.  This person makes his
grand début in the year ’thirty-nine, at a public meeting in the
principal room of a country inn.  He has come into the neighbourhood with
the character of a man worth a million pounds, who is to make everybody’s
fortune; at this time, however, he is not worth a shilling of his own,
though he flashes about dexterously three or four thousand pounds, part
of which sum he has obtained by specious pretences, and part from certain
individuals who are his confederates.  But in the year ’forty-nine, he is
really in possession of the fortune which he and his agents pretended he
was worth ten years before—he is worth a million pounds.  By what means
has he come by them?  By railroad contracts, for which he takes care to
be paid in hard cash before he attempts to perform them, and to carry out
which he makes use of the sweat and blood of wretches who, since their
organisation, have introduced crimes and language into England to which
it was previously almost a stranger—by purchasing, with paper, shares by
hundreds in the schemes to execute which he contracts, and which are of
his own devising; which shares he sells as soon as they are at a high
premium, to which they are speedily forced by means of paragraphs,
inserted by himself and agents, in newspapers devoted to his interest,
utterly reckless of the terrible depreciation to which they are almost
instantly subjected.  But he is worth a million pounds, there can be no
doubt of the fact—he has not made people’s fortunes, at least those whose
fortunes it was said he would make; he has made them away; but his own he
has made, emphatically made it; he is worth a million pounds.  Hurrah for
the millionnaire!  The clown who views the pandemonium of red brick which
he has built on the estate which he has purchased in the neighbourhood of
the place of his grand début in which every species of architecture,
Greek, Indian and Chinese, is employed in caricature—who hears of the
grand entertainment he gives at Christmas in the principal dining-room,
the hundred wax-candles, the waggon-load of plate, and the oceans of wine
which form parts of it, and above all the two ostrich poults, one at the
head, and the other at the foot of the table, exclaims: “Well! if he
a’n’t bang up, I don’t know who be; why he beats my lord hollow!”  The
mechanic of the borough town, who sees him dashing through the streets in
an open landau, drawn by four milk-white horses, amidst its attendant
out-riders; his wife, a monster of a woman, by his side, stout as the
wife of Tamerlane, who weighed twenty stone, and bedizened out like her
whose person shone with the jewels of plundered Persia, stares with
silent wonder, and at last exclaims: “That’s the man for my vote!”  You
tell the clown that the man of the mansion has contributed enormously to
corrupt the rural innocence of England; you point to an incipient branch
railroad, from around which the accents of Gomorrah are sounding, and beg
him to listen for a moment, and then close his ears.  Hodge scratches his
head and says: “Well, I have nothing to say to that; all I known is that
he is bang up, and I wish I were he”; perhaps he will add—a Hodge has
been known to add—“He has been kind enough to put my son on that very
railroad; ’tis true the company is somewhat queer, and the work rather
killing, but he gets there half a crown a day, whereas from the farmers
he would only get eighteenpence.”  You remind the mechanic that the man
in the landau has been the ruin of thousands, and you mention people whom
he himself knows, people in various grades of life, widows and orphans
amongst them, whose little all he has dissipated, and whom he has reduced
to beggary by inducing them to become sharers in his delusive schemes.
But the mechanic says: “Well, the more fools they to let themselves be
robbed.  But I don’t call that kind of thing robbery, I merely call it
out-witting; and everybody in this free country has a right to outwit
others if he can.  What a turn-out he has!”  One was once heard to add:
“I never saw a more genteel-looking man in all my life except one, and
that was a gentleman’s walley, who was much like him.  It is true he is
rather undersized, but then, madam, you know, makes up for all.”



CHAPTER V.
SUBJECT OF GENTILITY CONTINUED.


IN the last chapter have been exhibited specimens of gentility, so
considered by different classes; by one class, power, youth and epaulets
are considered the _ne plus ultra_ of gentility; by another class, pride,
stateliness and title; by another, wealth and flaming tawdriness.  But
what constitutes a gentleman?  It is easy to say at once what constitutes
a gentleman, and there are no distinctions in what is gentlemanly, {323}
as there are in what is genteel.  The characteristics of a gentleman are
high feeling—a determination never to take a cowardly advantage of
another—a liberal education—absence of narrow views—generosity and
courage, propriety of behaviour.  Now a person may be genteel according
to one or another of the three standards described above, and not possess
one of the characteristics of a gentleman.  Is the emperor a gentleman,
with spatters of blood on his clothes, scourged from the backs of noble
Hungarian women?  Are the aristocracy gentlefolks, who admire him?  Is
Mr. Flamson a gentleman, although he has a million pounds?  No! cowardly
miscreants, admirers of cowardly miscreants, and people who make a
million pounds by means compared with which those employed to make
fortunes by the getters up of the South Sea Bubble might be called honest
dealing, are decidedly not gentlefolks.  Now as it is clearly
demonstrable that a person may be perfectly genteel according to some
standard or other, and yet be no gentleman, so is it demonstrable that a
person may have no pretensions to gentility, and yet be a gentleman.  For
example, there is Lavengro!  Would the admirers of the emperor, or the
admirers of those who admire the emperor, or the admirers of Mr. Flamson,
call him genteel? and gentility with them is everything!  Assuredly they
would not; and assuredly they would consider him respectively as a being
to be shunned, despised, or hooted.  Genteel!  Why at one time he is a
hack author—writes reviewals for eighteenpence a page—edits a Newgate
chronicle.  At another he wanders the country with a face grimy from
occasionally mending kettles; and there is no evidence that his clothes
are not seedy and torn, and his shoes down at the heel; but by what
process of reasoning will they prove that he is no gentleman?  Is he not
learned?  Has he not generosity and courage?  Whilst a hack author, does
he pawn the books entrusted to him to review?  Does he break his word to
his publisher?  Does he write begging letters?  Does he get clothes or
lodgings without paying for them?  Again, whilst a wanderer, does he
insult helpless women on the road with loose proposals or ribald
discourse?  Does he take what is not his own from the hedges?  Does he
play on the fiddle, or make faces in public-houses, in order to obtain
pence or beer? or does he call for liquor, swallow it, and then say to a
widowed landlady, “Mistress, I have no brass?”  In a word, what vice and
crime does he perpetrate—what low acts does he commit?  Therefore, with
his endowments, who will venture to say that he is no gentleman?—unless
it be an admirer of Mr. Flamson—a clown—who will, perhaps, shout: “I say
he is no gentleman; for who can be a gentleman who keeps no gig?”

The indifference exhibited by Lavengro for what is merely genteel,
compared with his solicitude never to infringe the strict laws of honour,
should read a salutary lesson.  The generality of his countrymen are far
more careful not to transgress the customs of what they call gentility,
than to violate the laws of honour or morality.  They will shrink from
carrying their own carpet-bag, and from speaking to a person in seedy
raiment, whilst to matters of much higher importance they are shamelessly
indifferent.  Not so Lavengro; he will do anything that he deems
convenient, or which strikes his fancy, provided it does not outrage
decency, or is unallied to profligacy; is not ashamed to speak to a
beggar in rags, and will associate with anybody, provided he can gratify
a laudable curiosity.  He has no abstract love for what is low, or what
the world calls low.  He sees that many things which the world looks down
upon are valuable, so he prizes much which the world contemns; he sees
that many things which the world admires are contemptible, so he despises
much which the world does not; but when the world prizes what is really
excellent, he does not contemn it, because the world regards it.  If he
learns Irish, which all the world scoffs at, he likewise learns Italian,
which all the world melts at.  If he learns Gypsy, the language of the
tattered tent, he likewise learns Greek, the language of the college
hall.  If he learns smithery, he also learns—ah! what does he learn to
set against smithery?—the law?  No; he does not learn the law, which, by
the way, is not very genteel.  Swimming?  Yes, he learns to swim.
Swimming, however, is not genteel; and the world—at least the genteel
part of it—acts very wisely in setting its face against it; for to swim
you must be naked, and how would many a genteel person look without his
clothes?  Come, he learns horsemanship; a very genteel accomplishment,
which every genteel person would gladly possess, though not all genteel
people do.

Again as to associates: if he holds communion when a boy with Murtagh,
the scarecrow of an Irish academy, he associates in after life with
Francis Ardry, a rich and talented young Irish gentleman about town.  If
he accepts an invitation from Mr. Petulengro to his tent, he has no
objection to go home with a rich genius to dinner; who then will say that
he prizes a thing or a person because they are ungenteel?  That he is not
ready to take up with everything that is ungenteel he gives a proof, when
he refuses, though on the brink of starvation, to become bonnet to the
thimble-man, an office, which, though profitable, is positively
ungenteel.  Ah! but some sticker-up for gentility will exclaim: “The hero
did not refuse this office from an insurmountable dislike to its
ungentility, but merely from a feeling of principle”.  Well! the writer
is not fond of argument, and he will admit that such was the case; he
admits that it was a love of principle, rather than an over-regard for
gentility, which prevented the hero from accepting, when on the brink of
starvation, an ungenteel though lucrative office, an office which, the
writer begs leave to observe, many a person with a great regard for
gentility, and no particular regard for principle, would in a similar
strait have accepted; for when did a mere love for gentility keep a
person from being a dirty scoundrel, when the alternatives apparently
were “either be a dirty scoundrel or starve?”  One thing, however, is
certain, which is, that Lavengro did not accept the office, which if a
love for what is low had been his ruling passion he certainly would have
done; consequently, he refuses to do one thing which no genteel person
would willingly do, even as he does many things which every genteel
person would gladly do, for example, speaks Italian, rides on horseback,
associates with a fashionable young man, dines with a rich genius, et
cetera.  Yet—and it cannot be minced—he and gentility with regard to many
things are at strange divergency; he shrinks from many things at which
gentility placidly hums a tune, or approvingly simpers, and does some
things at which gentility positively shrinks.  He will not run into debt
for clothes or lodgings, which he might do without any scandal to
gentility; he will not receive money from Francis Ardry, and go to
Brighton with the sister of Annette Le Noir, though there is nothing
ungenteel in borrowing money from a friend, even when you never intend to
repay him, and something poignantly genteel in going to a watering-place
with a gay young Frenchwoman; but he has no objection, after raising
twenty pounds by the sale of that extraordinary work _Joseph Sell_, to
set off into the country, mend kettles under hedge-rows, and make pony
and donkey shoes in a dingle.  Here, perhaps, some plain, well-meaning
person will cry—and with much apparent justice—how can the writer justify
him in this act?  What motive, save a love for what is low, could induce
him to do such things?  Would the writer have everybody who is in need of
recreation go into the country, mend kettles under hedges, and make pony
shoes in dingles?  To such an observation the writer would answer, that
Lavengro had an excellent motive in doing what he did, but that the
writer is not so unreasonable as to wish everybody to do the same.  It is
not everybody who can mend kettles.  It is not everybody who is in
similar circumstances to those in which Lavengro was.  Lavengro flies
from London and hack authorship, and takes to the roads from fear of
consumption; it is expensive to put up at inns, and even at
public-houses, and Lavengro has not much money; so he buys a tinker’s
cart and apparatus, and sets up as tinker, and subsequently as
blacksmith; a person living in a tent, or in anything else, must do
something or go mad; Lavengro had a mind, as he himself well knew, with
some slight tendency to madness, and had he not employed himself, he must
have gone wild; so to employ himself he drew upon one of his resources,
the only one available at the time.  Authorship had nearly killed him, he
was sick of reading, and had besides no books; but he possessed the
rudiments of an art akin to tinkering; he knew something of smithery,
having served a kind of apprenticeship in Ireland to a fairy smith; so he
draws upon his smithery to enable him to acquire tinkering, and through
the help which it affords him, owing to its connection with tinkering, he
speedily acquires that craft, even as he had speedily acquired Welsh,
owing to its connection with Irish, which language he possessed; and with
tinkering he amuses himself until he lays it aside to resume smithery.  A
man who has any innocent resource, has quite as much right to draw upon
it in need, as he has upon a banker in whose hands he has placed a sum;
Lavengro turns to advantage, under particular circumstances, a certain
resource which he has, but people who are not so forlorn as Lavengro, and
have not served the same apprenticeship which he had, are not advised to
follow his example.  Surely he was better employed in plying the trades
of tinker and smith than in having recourse to vice, in running after
milk-maids, for example.  Running after milk-maids is by no means an
ungenteel rural diversion; but let any one ask some respectable casuist
(The Bishop of London for example), whether Lavengro was not far better
employed, when in the country, at tinkering and smithery than he would
have been in running after all the milk-maids in Cheshire, though
tinkering is in general considered a very ungenteel employment, and
smithery little better, notwithstanding that an Orcadian poet, who wrote
in Norse about eight hundred years ago, reckons the latter among nine
noble arts which he possessed, naming it along with playing at chess, on
the harp, and ravelling runes, or as the original has it, “treading
runes”—that is, compressing them into a small compass by mingling one
letter with another, even as the Turkish caligraphists ravel the Arabic
letters, more especially those who write talismans.

    Nine arts have I, all noble;
    I play at chess so free,
    At ravelling runes I’m ready,
    At books and smithery;
    I’m skill’d o’er ice at skimming
    On skates, I shoot and row,
    And few at harping match me,
    Or minstrelsy, I trow.

But though Lavengro takes up smithery, which, though the Orcadian ranks
it with chess-playing and harping, is certainly somewhat of a grimy art,
there can be no doubt that, had he been wealthy and not so forlorn as he
was, he would have turned to many things, honourable, of course, in
preference.  He has no objection to ride a fine horse when he has the
opportunity: he has his day-dream of making a fortune of two hundred
thousand pounds by becoming a merchant and doing business after the
Armenian fashion; and there can be no doubt that he would have been glad
to wear fine clothes, provided he had had sufficient funds to authorise
him in wearing them.  For the sake of wandering the country and plying
the hammer and tongs, he would not have refused a commission in the
service of that illustrious monarch George the Fourth, provided he had
thought that he could live on his pay, and not be forced to run in debt
to tradesmen, without any hope of paying them, for clothes and luxuries,
as many highly genteel officers in that honourable service were in the
habit of doing.  For the sake of tinkering, he would certainly not have
refused a secretaryship of an embassy to Persia, in which he might have
turned his acquaintance with Persian, Arabic, and the Lord only knows
what other languages, to account.  He took to tinkering and smithery,
because no better employments were at his command.  No war is waged in
the book against rank, wealth, fine clothes or dignified employments; it
is shown, however, that a person may be a gentleman and a scholar without
them.  Rank, wealth, fine clothes and dignified employments, are no doubt
very fine things, but they are merely externals, they do not make a
gentleman, they add external grace and dignity to the gentleman and
scholar, but they make neither; and is it not better to be a gentleman
without them than not a gentleman with them?  Is not Lavengro, when he
leaves London on foot with twenty pounds in his pocket, entitled to more
respect than Mr. Flamson flaming in his coach with a million?  And is not
even the honest jockey at Horncastle, who offers a fair price to Lavengro
for his horse, entitled to more than the scoundrel lord, who attempts to
cheat him of one-fourth of its value.

Millions, however, seem to think otherwise, by their servile adoration of
people whom without rank, wealth and fine clothes they would consider
infamous, but whom possessed of rank, wealth and glittering habiliments
they seem to admire all the more for their profligacy and crimes.  Does
not a blood-spot, or a lust-spot, on the clothes of a blooming emperor,
give a kind of zest to the genteel young god?  Do not the pride,
superciliousness and selfishness of a certain aristocracy make it all the
more regarded by its worshippers? and do not the clownish and
gutter-blood admirers of Mr. Flamson like him all the more because they
are conscious that he is a knave?  If such is the case—and alas! is it
not the case?—they cannot be too frequently told that fine clothes,
wealth and titles adorn a person in proportion as he adorns them; that if
worn by the magnanimous and good they are ornaments indeed, but if by the
vile and profligate they are merely _san benitos_, and only serve to make
their infamy doubly apparent; and that a person in seedy raiment and
tattered hat, possessed of courage, kindness and virtue, is entitled to
more respect from those to whom his virtues are manifested than any cruel
profligate emperor, selfish aristocrat, or knavish millionnaire in the
world.

The writer has no intention of saying that all in England are affected
with the absurd mania for gentility; nor is such a statement made in the
book; it is shown therein that individuals of various classes can prize a
gentleman, notwithstanding seedy raiment, dusty shoes or tattered hat—for
example, the young Irishman, the rich genius, the postillion, and his
employer.  Again, when the life of the hero is given to the world, amidst
the howl about its lowness and vulgarity, raised by the servile crew whom
its independence of sentiment has stung, more than one powerful voice has
been heard testifying approbation of its learning and the purity of its
morality.  That there is some salt in England, minds not swayed by mere
externals, he is fully convinced; if he were not, he would spare himself
the trouble of writing; but to the fact that the generality of his
countrymen are basely grovelling before the shrine of what they are
pleased to call gentility, he cannot shut his eyes.

Oh! what a clever person that Cockney was, who, travelling in the
Aberdeen railroad carriage, after edifying the company with his remarks
on various subjects, gave it as his opinion that Lieutenant P— would, in
future, be shunned by all respectable society!  And what a simple person
that elderly gentleman was, who, abruptly starting, asked in rather an
authoritative voice, “And why should Lieutenant P— be shunned by
respectable society?” and who, after entering into what was said to be a
masterly analysis of the entire evidence of the case, concluded by
stating, “that having been accustomed to all kinds of evidence all his
life, he had never known a case in which the accused had obtained a more
complete and triumphant justification than Lieutenant P— had done in the
late trial”.

Now the Cockney, who is said to have been a very foppish Cockney, was
perfectly right in what he said, and therein manifested a knowledge of
the English mind and character, and likewise of the modern English
language, to which his catechist, who, it seems, was a distinguished
member of the Scottish bar, could lay no pretensions.  The Cockney knew
what the Lord of Session knew not, that the British public is gentility
crazy, and he knew, moreover, that gentility and respectability are
synonymous.  No one in England is genteel or respectable that is “looked
at,” who is the victim of oppression; he may be pitied for a time, but
when did not pity terminate in contempt?  A poor harmless young
officer—but why enter into the details of the infamous case? they are but
too well known, and if ever cruelty, pride and cowardice, and things much
worse than even cruelty, cowardice and pride were brought to light, and,
at the same time, countenanced, they were in that case.  What availed the
triumphant justification of the poor victim?  There was at first a roar
of indignation against his oppressors, but how long did it last?  He had
been turned out of the service, they remained in it with their red coats
and epaulets; he was merely the son of a man who had rendered good
service to his country; they were, for the most part, highly
connected—they were in the extremest degree genteel, he quite the
reverse; so the nation wavered, considered, thought the genteel side was
the safest after all, and then with the cry of “Oh! there is nothing like
gentility,” ratted bodily.  Newspaper and public turned against the
victim, scouted him, apologised for the—what should they be called?—who
were not only admitted into the most respectable society, but courted to
come, the spots not merely of wine on their military clothes, giving them
a kind of poignancy.  But there is a God in heaven; the British glories
are tarnished—Providence has never smiled on British arms since that
case—oh! Balaklava! thy name interpreted is net of fishes, and well dost
thou deserve that name.  How many a scarlet golden fish has of late
perished in the mud amidst thee, cursing the genteel service, and the
genteel leader which brought him to such a doom.

Whether the rage for gentility is most prevalent amongst the upper,
middle or lower classes it is difficult to say; the priest in the text
seems to think that it is exhibited in the most decided manner in the
middle class; it is the writer’s opinion, however, that in no class is it
more strongly developed than in the lower: what they call being well-born
goes a great way amongst them, but the possession of money much farther,
whence Mr. Flamson’s influence over them.  Their rage against, and scorn
for, any person who by his courage and talents has advanced himself in
life, and still remains poor, are indescribable; “he is no better than
ourselves,” they say, “why should he be above us?”—for they have no
conception that anybody has a right to ascendency over themselves except
by birth or money.  This feeling amongst the vulgar has been, to a
certain extent, the bane of the two services, naval and military.  The
writer does not make this assertion rashly; he observed this feeling at
work in the army when a child, and he has good reason for believing that
it was as strongly at work in the navy at the same time, and is still as
prevalent in both.  Why are not brave men raised from the ranks? is
frequently the cry, why are not brave sailors promoted? the Lord help
brave soldiers and sailors who are promoted; they have less to undergo
from the high airs of their brother officers, and those are hard enough
to endure, than from the insolence of the men.  Soldiers and sailors
promoted to command are said to be in general tyrants; in nine cases out
of ten, when they are tyrants, they have been obliged to have recourse to
extreme severity in order to protect themselves from the insolence and
mutinous spirit of the men,—“He is no better than ourselves: shoot him,
bayonet him, or fling him overboard!” they say of some obnoxious
individual raised above them by his merit.  Soldiers and sailors in
general, will bear any amount of tyranny from a lordly sot, or the son of
a man who has “plenty of brass”—their own term—but will mutiny against
the just orders of a skilful and brave officer who “is no better than
themselves”.  There was the affair of the _Bounty_, for example: Bligh
was one of the best seamen that ever trod deck, and one of the bravest of
men; proofs of his seamanship he gave by steering, amidst dreadful
weather, a deeply laden boat for nearly four thousand miles over an
almost unknown ocean—of his bravery, at the fight of Copenhagen, one of
the most desperate ever fought, of which after Nelson he was the hero: he
was, moreover, not an unkind man; but the crew of the _Bounty_, mutinied
against him, and set him half naked in an open boat, with certain of his
men who remained faithful to him, and ran away with the ship.  Their
principal motive for doing so was an idea, whether true or groundless the
writer cannot say, that Bligh was “no better than themselves”; he was
certainly neither a lord’s illegitimate, nor possessed of twenty thousand
pounds.  The writer knows what he is writing about, having been
acquainted in his early years with an individual who was turned adrift
with Bligh, and who died about the year ’22, a lieutenant in the navy, in
a provincial town in which the writer was brought up.  The ringleaders in
the mutiny were two scoundrels, Christian and Young, who had great
influence with the crew, because they were genteelly connected.  Bligh,
after leaving the _Bounty_, had considerable difficulty in managing the
men who had shared his fate, because they considered themselves “as good
men as he,” notwithstanding, that to his conduct and seamanship they had
alone to look, under Heaven, for salvation from the ghastly perils that
surrounded them.  Bligh himself, in his journal, alludes to this feeling.
Once, when he and his companions landed on a desert island, one of them
said, with a mutinous look, that he considered himself “as good a man as
he”; Bligh, seizing a cutlass, called upon him to take another and defend
himself, whereupon the man said that Bligh was going to kill him, and
made all manner of concessions; now why did this fellow consider himself
as good a man as Bligh?  Was he as good a seaman? no, nor a tenth part as
good.  As brave a man? no, nor a tenth part as brave; and of these facts
he was perfectly well aware, but bravery and seamanship stood for nothing
with him, as they still stand with thousands of his class; Bligh was not
genteel by birth or money, therefore Bligh was no better than himself.
Had Bligh, before he sailed, got a twenty-thousand pound prize in the
lottery, he would have experienced no insolence from this fellow, for
there would have been no mutiny in the _Bounty_.  “He is our betters,”
the crew would have said, “and it is our duty to obey him.”

The wonderful power of gentility in England is exemplified in nothing
more than in what it is producing amongst Jews, Gypsies and Quakers.  It
is breaking up their venerable communities.  All the better, some one
will say.  Alas! alas!  It is making the wealthy Jews forsake the
synagogue for the opera-house, or the gentility chapel, in which a
disciple of Mr. Platitude, in a white surplice, preaches a sermon at
noon-day from a desk, on each side of which is a flaming taper.  It is
making them abandon their ancient literature, their _Mischna_, their
_Gemara_, their _Zohar_, for gentility novels, _The Young Duke_, the most
unexceptionably genteel book ever written, being the principal favourite.
It makes the young Jew ashamed of the young Jewess, it makes her ashamed
of the young Jew.  The young Jew marries an opera dancer, or if the
dancer will not have him, as is frequently the case, the cast-off Miss of
the honourable Spencer So-and-so.  It makes the young Jewess accept the
honourable offer of a cashiered lieutenant of the Bengal Native Infantry;
or, if such a person does not come forward, the dishonourable offer of a
cornet of a regiment of crack hussars.  It makes poor Jews, male and
female, forsake the synagogue for the sixpenny theatre or penny hop; the
Jew to take up with an Irish female of loose character, and the Jewess
with a musician of the Guards, or the Tipperary servant of Captain
Mulligan.  With respect to the gypsies, it is making the women what they
never were before—harlots; and the men what they never were
before—careless fathers and husbands.  It has made the daughter of
Ursula, the chaste, take up with the base drummer of a wild-beast show.
It makes Gorgiko Brown, the gypsy man, leave his tent and his old wife,
of an evening, and thrust himself into society which could well dispense
with him.  “Brother,” said Mr. Petulengro the other day to the Romany
Rye, after telling him many things connected with the decadence of
gypsyism, “there is one Gorgiko Brown, who, with a face as black as a
tea-kettle, wishes to be mistaken for a Christian tradesman; he goes into
the parlour of a third-rate inn of an evening, calls for rum and water,
and attempts to enter into conversation with the company about politics
and business; the company flout him or give him the cold shoulder, or
perhaps complain to the landlord, who comes and asks him what business he
has in the parlour, telling him if he wants to drink to go into the
tap-room, and perhaps collars him and kicks him out, provided he refuses
to move.”  With respect to the Quakers, it makes the young people like
the young Jews, crazy after gentility diversions, worship, marriages or
connections, and makes old Pease do what it makes Gorgiko Brown do,
thrust himself into society which could well dispense with him, and out
of which he is not kicked, because unlike the gypsy he is not poor.  The
writer would say much more on these points, but want of room prevents
him; he must therefore request the reader to have patience until he can
lay before the world a pamphlet, which he has been long meditating, to be
entitled “Remarks on the strikingly similar Effects which a Love for
Gentility has produced, and is producing, amongst Jews, Gypsies and
Quakers”.

The priest in the book has much to say on the subject of this
gentility-nonsense; no person can possibly despise it more thoroughly
than that very remarkable individual seems to do, yet he hails its
prevalence with pleasure, knowing the benefits which will result from it
to the Church of which he is the sneering slave.  “The English are mad
after gentility,” says he; “well, all the better for us; their religion
for a long time past has been a plain and simple one, and consequently by
no means genteel; they’ll quit it for ours, which is the perfection of
what they admire; with which Templars, Hospitalers, mitred abbots, Gothic
abbeys, long-drawn aisles, golden censers, incense, et cetera, are
connected; nothing, or next to nothing, of Christ, it is true, but
weighed in the balance against gentility, where will Christianity be?
why, kicking against the beam—ho! ho!”  And in connection with the
gentility-nonsense, he expatiates largely, and with much contempt, on a
species of literature by which the interests of his Church in England
have been very much advanced—all genuine priests have a thorough contempt
for everything which tends to advance the interests of their Church—this
literature is made up of pseudo Jacobitism, Charlie o’er the waterism, or
nonsense about Charlie o’er the water.  And the writer will now take the
liberty of saying a few words about it on his own account.



CHAPTER VI.
ON SCOTCH GENTILITY NONSENSE.


OF the literature just alluded to Scott was the inventor.  It is founded
on the fortunes and misfortunes of the Stuart family, of which Scott was
the zealous defender and apologist, doing all that in his power lay to
represent the members of it as noble, chivalrous, high-minded,
unfortunate princes; though, perhaps, of all the royal families that ever
existed upon earth, this family was the worst.  It was unfortunate
enough, it is true; but it owed its misfortunes entirely to its crimes,
viciousness, bad faith, and cowardice.  Nothing will be said of it here
until it made its appearance in England to occupy the English throne.

The first of the family which we have to do with, James, was a dirty,
cowardly miscreant, of whom the less said the better.  His son, Charles
the First, was a tyrant—exceedingly cruel and revengeful, but weak and
dastardly; he caused a poor fellow to be hanged in London, who was not
his subject, because he had heard that the unfortunate creature had once
bit his own glove at Cadiz, in Spain, at the mention of his name; and he
permitted his own bull-dog, Strafford, to be executed by his own enemies,
though the only crime of Strafford was, that he had barked furiously at
those enemies, and had worried two or three of them, when Charles
shouted, “Fetch ’em”.  He was a bitter, but yet a despicable enemy, and
the coldest and most worthless of friends; for though he always hoped to
be able, some time or other, to hang his enemies, he was always ready to
curry favour with them, more especially if he could do so at the expense
of his friends.  He was the haughtiest, yet meanest of mankind.  He once
caned a young nobleman for appearing before him in the drawing-room not
dressed exactly according to the court etiquette; yet he condescended to
flatter and compliment him who, from principle, was his bitterest enemy,
namely Harrison, when the republican colonel was conducting him as a
prisoner to London.  His bad faith was notorious; it was from abhorrence
of the first public instance which he gave of his bad faith, his breaking
his word to the Infanta of Spain, that the poor Hiberno-Spaniard bit his
glove at Cadiz; and it was his notorious bad faith which eventually cost
him his head; for the Republicans would gladly have spared him, provided
they could put the slightest confidence in any promise, however solemn,
which he might have made to them.  Of them, it would be difficult to say
whether they most hated or despised him.  Religion he had none.  One day
he favoured Popery; the next, on hearing certain clamours of the people,
he sent his wife’s domestics back packing to France, because they were
<DW7>s.  <DW7>s, however, should make him a saint, for he was certainly
the cause of the taking of Rochelle.

His son, Charles the Second, though he passed his youth in the school of
adversity, learned no other lesson from it than the following one—take
care of yourself, and never do an action, either good or bad, which is
likely to bring you into any great difficulty; and this maxim he acted up
to as soon as he came to the throne.  He was a <DW7>, but took especial
care not to acknowledge his religion, at which he frequently scoffed,
till just before his last gasp, when he knew that he could lose nothing,
and hoped to gain everything by it.  He was always in want of money, but
took care not to tax the country beyond all endurable bounds; preferring
to such a bold and dangerous course, to become the secret pensioner of
Louis, to whom, in return for his gold, he sacrificed the honour and
interests of Britain.  He was too lazy and sensual to delight in playing
the part of a tyrant himself; but he never checked tyranny in others save
in one instance.  He permitted beastly butchers to commit unmentionable
horrors on the feeble, unarmed and disunited Covenanters of Scotland, but
checked them when they would fain have endeavoured to play the same game
on the numerous united, dogged and warlike Independents of England.  To
show his filial piety, he bade the hangman dishonour the corpses of some
of his father’s judges, before whom, when alive, he ran like a screaming
hare; but permitted those who had lost their all in supporting his
father’s cause, to pine in misery and want.  He would give to a painted
harlot a thousand pounds for a loathsome embrace, and to a player or
buffoon a hundred for a trumpery pun, but would refuse a penny to the
widow or orphan of an old Royalist soldier.  He was the personification
of selfishness; and as he loved and cared for no one, so did no one love
or care for him.  So little had he gained the respect or affection of
those who surrounded him, that after his body had undergone an
after-death examination, parts of it were thrown down the sinks of the
palace, to become eventually the prey of the swine and ducks of
Westminster.

His brother, who succeeded him James the Second, was a <DW7>, but
sufficiently honest to acknowledge his Popery, but upon the whole, he was
a poor creature; though a tyrant, he was cowardly; had he not been a
coward he would never have lost his throne.  There were plenty of lovers
of tyranny in England who would have stood by him, provided he would have
stood by them, and would, though not <DW7>s, have encouraged him in his
attempt to bring back England beneath the sway of Rome, and perhaps would
eventually have become <DW7>s themselves; but the nation raising a cry
against him, and his son-in-law, the Prince of Orange, invading the
country, he forsook his friends, of whom he had a host, but for whom he
cared little—left his throne, for which he cared a great deal—and Popery
in England, for which he cared yet more, to their fate, and escaped to
France, from whence, after taking a little heart, he repaired to Ireland,
where he was speedily joined by a gallant army of <DW7>s whom he basely
abandoned at the Boyne, running away in a most lamentable condition, at
the time when by showing a little courage he might have enabled them to
conquer.  This worthy, in his last will, bequeathed his heart to England,
his right arm to Scotland, and his bowels to Ireland.  What the English
and Scotch said to their respective bequests is not known, but it is
certain that an old Irish priest, supposed to have been a great
grand-uncle of the present Reverend Father Murtagh, on hearing of the
bequest to Ireland, fell into a great passion, and having been brought up
at “Paris and Salamanca,” expressed his indignation in the following
strain: “_Malditas sean tus tripas_! _teniamos bastante del olor de tus
tripas al tiempo de tu huida de la batalla del Boyne_!”

His son, generally called the Old Pretender, though born in England, was
carried in his infancy to France, where he was brought up in the
strictest principles of Popery, which principles, however, did not
prevent him becoming (when did they ever prevent any one?) a worthless
and profligate scoundrel; there are some doubts as to the reality of his
being a son of James, which doubts are probably unfounded, the grand
proof of his legitimacy being the thorough baseness of his character.  It
was said of his father that he could speak well, and it may be said of
him that he could write well, the only thing he could do which was worth
doing, always supposing that there is any merit in being able to write.
He was of a mean appearance, and, like his father, pusillanimous to a
degree.  The meaness of his appearance disgusted, and his pusillanimity
discouraged, the Scotch when he made his appearance amongst them in the
year 1715, some time after the standard of rebellion had been hoisted by
Mar.  He only stayed a short time in Scotland, and then, seized with
panic, retreated to France, leaving his friends to shift for themselves
as they best could.  He died a pensioner of the Pope.

The son of this man, Charles Edward, of whom so much in latter years has
been said and written, was a worthless, ignorant youth, and a profligate
and illiterate old man.  When young, the best that can be said of him is,
that he had occasionally springs of courage, invariably at the wrong time
and place, which merely served to lead his friends into inextricable
difficulties.  When old, he was loathsome and contemptible to both friend
and foe.  His wife loathed him, and for the most terrible of reasons; she
did not pollute his couch, for to do that was impossible—he had made it
so vile; but she betrayed it, inviting to it not only Alfieri the Filthy,
but the coarsest grooms.  Doctor King, the warmest and almost last
adherent of his family, said that there was not a vice or crime of which
he was not guilty; as for his foes, they scorned to harm him even when in
their power.  In the year 1745 he came down from the Highlands of
Scotland, which had long been a focus of rebellion.  He was attended by
certain clans of the Highlands, desperadoes used to free-bootery from
their infancy, and, consequently, to the use of arms, and possessed of a
certain species of discipline; with these he defeated at Prestonpans a
body of men called soldiers, but who were in reality peasants and
artisans, levied about a month before, without discipline or confidence
in each other, and who were miserably massacred by the Highland army; he
subsequently invaded England, nearly destitute of regular soldiers, and
penetrated as far as Derby, from which place he retreated on learning
that regular forces which had been hastily recalled from Flanders were
coming against him, with the Duke of Cumberland at their head; he was
pursued, and his rear guard overtaken and defeated by the dragoons of the
duke at Clifton, from which place the rebels retreated in great confusion
across the Eden into Scotland, where they commenced dancing Highland
reels and strathspeys on the bank of the river, for joy at their escape,
whilst a number of wretched girls, paramours of some of them, were
perishing in the waters of the swollen river in an attempt to follow
them; they themselves passed over by eighties and by hundreds, arm in
arm, for mutual safety, without the loss of a man, but they left the poor
paramours to shift for themselves, nor did any of these canny people
after passing the stream dash back to rescue a single female life—no,
they were too well employed upon the bank in dancing strathspeys to the
tune of “Charlie o’er the water”.  It was, indeed, Charlie o’er the
water, and canny Highlanders o’er the water, but where were the poor
prostitutes meantime?  _In the water_.

The Jacobite farce, or tragedy, was speedily brought to a close by the
battle of Culloden; there did Charlie wish himself back again o’er the
water, exhibiting the most unmistakable signs of pusillanimity; there
were the clans cut to pieces, at least those who could be brought to the
charge, and there fell Giles Mac Bean, or as he was called in Gaelic,
Giliosa Mac Beathan, a kind of giant, six feet four inches and a quarter
high, “than whom,” as his wife said in a _coronach_ she made upon him,
“no man who stood at Cuiloitr was taller”—Giles Mac Bean the Major of the
clan Cattan—a great drinker—a great fisher—a great shooter, and the
champion of the Highland host.

The last of the Stuarts was a cardinal.

Such were the Stuarts, such their miserable history.  They were dead and
buried in every sense of the word until Scott resuscitated them—how? by
the power of fine writing, and by calling to his aid that strange
divinity, gentility.  He wrote splendid novels about the Stuarts, in
which he represents them as unlike what they really were, as the graceful
and beautiful papillon is unlike the hideous and filthy worm.  In a word,
he made them genteel, and that was enough to give them paramount sway
over the minds of the British people.  The public became Stuart-mad, and
everybody, especially the women, said, “What a pity it was that we hadn’t
a Stuart to govern”.  All parties, Whig, Tory or Radical, became Jacobite
at heart, and admirers of absolute power.  The Whigs talked about the
liberty of the subject, and the Radicals about the rights of man still,
but neither party cared a straw for what it talked about, and mentally
swore that, as soon as by means of such stuff they could get places, and
fill their pockets, they would be as Jacobite as the Jacobs themselves.
As for the Tories, no great change in them was necessary; everything
favouring absolutism and slavery being congenial to them.  So the whole
nation, that is, the reading part of the nation, with some exceptions,
for thank God there has always been some salt in England, went over the
water to Charlie.  But going over to Charlie was not enough, they must,
or at least a considerable part of them, go over to Rome too, or have a
hankering to do so.  As the priest sarcastically observes in the text,
“As all the Jacobs were <DW7>s, so the good folks who through Scott’s
novels admire the Jacobs must be <DW7>s too”.  An idea got about that
the religion of such genteel people as the Stuarts must be the climax of
gentility, and that idea was quite sufficient.  Only let a thing, whether
temporal or spiritual, be considered genteel in England, and if it be not
followed it is strange indeed; so Scott’s writings not only made the
greater part of the nation Jacobite, but Popish.

Here some people will exclaim—whose opinions remain sound and
uncontaminated—what you say is perhaps true with respect to the Jacobite
nonsense at present so prevalent being derived from Scott’s novels, but
the Popish nonsense, which people of the genteeler classes are so fond
of, is derived from Oxford.  We sent our sons to Oxford nice honest lads,
educated in the principles of the Church of England, and at the end of
the first term they came home puppies, talking Popish nonsense, which
they had learned from the pedants to whose care we had entrusted them;
ay, not only Popery but Jacobitism, which they hardly carried with them
from home, for we never heard them talking Jacobitism before they had
been at Oxford; but now their conversation is a farrago of Popish and
Jacobite stuff—“Complines and Claverse”.  Now, what these honest folks
say is, to a certain extent, founded on fact; the Popery which has
overflowed the land during the last fourteen or fifteen years, has come
immediately from Oxford, and likewise some of the Jacobitism, Popish and
Jacobite nonsense, and little or nothing else, having been taught at
Oxford for about that number of years.  But whence did the pedants get
the Popish nonsense with which they have corrupted youth?  Why, from the
same quarter from which they got the Jacobite nonsense with which they
have inoculated those lads who were not inoculated with it before—Scott’s
novels.  Jacobitism and Laudism, a kind of half Popery, had at one time
been very prevalent at Oxford, but both had been long consigned to
oblivion there, and people at Oxford cared as little about Laud as they
did about the Pretender.  Both were dead and buried there, as everywhere
else, till Scott called them out of their graves when the pedants of
Oxford hailed both—ay, and the Pope, too, as soon as Scott had made the
old fellow fascinating, through particular novels, more especially the
_Monastery_ and _Abbot_.  Then the quiet, respectable, honourable Church
of England would no longer do for the pedants of Oxford; they must belong
to a more genteel Church—they were ashamed at first to be downright
Romans—so they would be Lauds.  The pale-looking, but exceedingly genteel
non-juring clergyman in _Waverley_ was a Laud; but they soon became tired
of being Lauds, for Laud’s Church, gew-gawish and idolatrous as it was,
was not sufficiently tinselly and idolatrous for them, so they must be
Popes, but in a sneaking way, still calling themselves Church of England
men, in order to batten on the bounty of the Church which they were
betraying, and likewise have opportunities of corrupting such lads as
might still resort to Oxford with principles uncontaminated.

So the respectable people, whose opinions are still sound, are, to a
certain extent, right when they say that the tide of Popery, which has
flowed over the land, has come from Oxford.  It did come immediately from
Oxford, but how did it get to Oxford?  Why, from Scott’s novels.  Oh!
that sermon which was the first manifestation of Oxford feeling, preached
at Oxford some time in the year ’38 by a divine of a weak and confused
intellect, in which Popery was mixed up with Jacobitism!  The present
writer remembers perfectly well, on reading some extracts from it at the
time in a newspaper, on the top of a coach, exclaiming—“Why, the
simpleton has been pilfering from Walter Scott’s novels!”

O Oxford pedants!  Oxford pedants! ye whose politics and religion are
both derived from Scott’s novels! what a pity it is that some lad of
honest parents, whose mind ye are endeavouring to stultify with your
nonsense about “Complines and Claverse,” has not the spirit to start up
and cry, “Confound your gibberish!  I’ll have none of it.  Hurrah for the
Church, and the principles of _my father_!”



CHAPTER VII.
SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.


NOW what could have induced Scott to write novels tending to make people
<DW7>s and Jacobites, and in love with arbitrary power?  Did he think
that Christianity was a gaudy mummery?  He did not, he could not, for he
had read the Bible; yet was he fond of gaudy mummeries, fond of talking
about them.  Did he believe that the Stuarts were a good family, and fit
to govern a country like Britain?  He knew that they were a vicious,
worthless crew, and that Britain was a degraded country as long as they
swayed the sceptre; but for those facts he cared nothing, they governed
in a way which he liked, for he had an abstract love of despotism, and an
abhorrence of everything savouring of freedom and the rights of man in
general.  His favourite political picture was a joking, profligate,
careless king, nominally absolute—the heads of great houses paying court
to, but in reality governing, that king, whilst revelling with him on the
plunder of a nation, and a set of crouching, grovelling vassals (the
literal meaning of vassal is a wretch), who, after allowing themselves to
be horsewhipped, would take a bone if flung to them, and be grateful; so
that in love with mummery, though he knew what Christianity was, no
wonder he admired such a Church as that of Rome, and that which Laud set
up; and by nature formed to be the holder of the candle to ancient
worm-eaten and profligate families, no wonder that all his sympathies
were with the Stuarts and their dissipated insolent party, and all his
hatred directed against those who endeavoured to check them in their
proceedings, and to raise the generality of mankind something above a
state of vassalage, that is, wretchedness.  Those who were born great,
were, if he could have had his will, always to remain great, however
worthless their characters.  Those who were born low, were always to
remain so, however great their talents; though, if that rule were carried
out, where would he have been himself?

In the book which he called the _History of Napoleon Bonaparte_, in which
he plays the sycophant to all the legitimate crowned heads in Europe,
whatever their crimes, vices or miserable imbecilities, he, in his
abhorrence of everything low which by its own vigour makes itself
illustrious, calls Murat of the sabre the son of a pastry-cook, of a
Marseilleise pastry-cook.  It is a pity that people who give themselves
hoity-toity airs—and the Scotch in general are wonderfully addicted to
giving themselves hoity-toity airs, and checking people better than
themselves with their birth {342} and their country—it is a great pity
that such people do not look at home—son of a pastry-cook, of a
Marseilleise pastry-cook!  Well, and what was Scott himself?  Why, son of
a pettifogger, of an Edinburgh pettifogger.  “Oh, but Scott was descended
from the old cow-stealers of Buccleuch, and therefore—” descended from
old cow-stealers, was he?  Well, had he had nothing to boast of beyond
such a pedigree, he would have lived and died the son of a pettifogger,
and been forgotten, and deservedly so; but he possessed talents, and by
his talents rose like Murat, and like him will be remembered for his
talents alone, and deservedly so.  “Yes, but Murat was still the son of a
pastry-cook, and though he was certainly good at the sabre, and cut his
way to a throne, still—”  Lord! what fools there are in the world; but as
no one can be thought anything of in this world without a pedigree, the
writer will now give a pedigree for Murat, of a very different character
from the cow-stealing one of Scott, but such a one as the proudest he
might not disdain to claim.  Scott was descended from the old
cow-stealers of Buccleuch—was he?  Good! and Murat was descended from the
old Moors of Spain, from the Abencerages (sons of the saddle) of Granada.
The name Murat is Arabic, and is the same as Murad (_Le Désiré_, or the
wished-for one).  Scott in his genteel _Life of Bonaparte_, says that
“when Murat was in Egypt, the similarity between the name of the
celebrated Mameluke Mourad and that of Bonaparte’s _Meilleur Sabreur_ was
remarked, and became the subject of jest amongst the comrades of the
gallant Frenchman”.  But the writer of the novel of Bonaparte did not
know that the names were one and the same.  Now which was the best
pedigree, that of the son of the pastry-cook, or that of the son of the
pettifogger?  Which was the best blood?  Let us observe the workings of
the two bloods.  He who had the blood of the “sons of the saddle” in him,
became the wonderful cavalier of the most wonderful host that ever went
forth to conquest, won for himself a crown and died the death of a
soldier, leaving behind him a son, only inferior to himself in strength,
in prowess, and in horsemanship.  The descendant of the cow-stealer
became a poet, a novel writer, the panegyrist of great folk and genteel
people; became insolvent because, though an author, he deemed it
ungenteel to be mixed up with the business part of authorship; died
paralytic and broken-hearted because he could no longer give
entertainments to great folks; leaving behind him, amongst other
children, who were never heard of, a son, who, through his father’s
interest, had become lieutenant-colonel in a genteel cavalry regiment.  A
son who was ashamed of his father because his father was an author; a son
who—paugh—why ask which was the best blood?

So, owing to his rage for gentility, Scott must needs become the
apologist of the Stuarts and their party; but God made this man pay
dearly for taking the part of the wicked against the good; for lauding up
to the skies the miscreants and robbers, and calumniating the noble
spirits of Britain, the salt of England, and his own country.  As God had
driven the Stuarts from their throne, and their followers from their
estates, making them vagabonds and beggars on the face of the earth,
taking from them all they cared for, so did that same God, who knows
perfectly well how and where to strike, deprive the apologist of that
wretched crew of all that rendered life pleasant in his eyes, the lack of
which paralysed him in body and mind, rendered him pitiable to others,
loathsome to himself,—so much so, that he once said, “Where is the beggar
who would change places with me, notwithstanding all my fame?”  Ah! God
knows perfectly well how to strike.  He permitted him to retain all his
literary fame to the very last—his literary fame for which he cared
nothing; but what became of the sweetness of life, his fine house, his
grand company, and his entertainments?  The grand house ceased to be his;
he was only permitted to live in it on sufferance, and whatever grandeur
it might still retain, it soon became as desolate a looking house as any
misanthrope could wish to see—where were the grand entertainments and the
grand company? there are no grand entertainments where there is no money;
no lords and ladies where there are no entertainments—and there lay the
poor lodger in the desolate house, groaning on a bed no longer his,
smitten by the hand of God in the part where he was most vulnerable.  Of
what use telling such a man to take comfort, for he had written the
_Minstrel_ and _Rob Roy_,—telling him to think of his literary fame?
Literary fame, indeed! he wanted back his lost gentility.—

             Retain my altar,
    I care nothing for it—but, oh! touch not my _beard_.

                                               —PARNY’S _War of the Gods_.

He dies, his children die too, and then comes the crowning judgment of
God on what remains of his race and the house which he had built.  He was
not a <DW7> himself, nor did he wish any one belonging to him to be
Popish, for he had read enough of the Bible to know that no one can be
saved through Popery, yet had he a sneaking affection for it, and would
at times in an underhand manner, give it a good word both in writing and
discourse, because it was a gaudy kind of worship, and ignorance and
vassalage prevailed so long as it flourished—but he certainly did not
wish any of his people to become <DW7>s, nor the house which he had
built to become a Popish house, though the very name he gave it savoured
of Popery; but Popery becomes fashionable through his novels and
poems—the only one that remains of his race, a female grandchild, marries
a person who, following the fashion, becomes a <DW7>, and makes her a
<DW7> too.  Money abounds with the husband, who buys the house, and then
the house becomes the rankest Popish house in Britain.  A superstitious
person might almost imagine that one of the old Scottish Covenanters,
whilst the grand house was being built from the profits resulting from
the sale of writings favouring Popery and persecution, and calumniatory
of Scotland’s saints and martyrs, had risen from the grave, and banned
Scott, his race, and his house, by reading a certain Psalm.

In saying what he has said about Scott, the author has not been
influenced by any feeling of malice or ill-will, but simply by a regard
for truth, and a desire to point out to his countrymen the harm which has
resulted from the perusal of his works; he is not one of those who would
depreciate the talents of Scott—he admires his talents, both as a prose
writer and a poet; as a poet especially he admires him, and believes him
to have been by far the greatest, with perhaps the exception of
Mickiewicz, who only wrote for unfortunate Poland, that Europe has given
birth to during the last hundred years.  As a prose writer he admires him
less, it is true, but his admiration for him in that capacity is very
high, and he only laments that he prostituted his talents to the cause of
the Stuarts and gentility.  What book of fiction of the present century
can you read twice, with the exception of _Waverley_ and _Rob Roy_?
There is _Pelham_ it is true, which the writer of these lines has seen a
Jewess reading in the steppe of Debreczin, and which a young Prussian
Baron, a great traveller, whom he met at Constantinople in ’44 told him
he always carried in his valise.  And, in conclusion, he will say, in
order to show the opinion which he entertains of the power of Scott as a
writer, that he did for the spectre of the wretched Pretender what all
the kings of Europe could not do for his body—placed it on the throne of
these realms; and for Popery, what Popes and Cardinals strove in vain to
do for three centuries—brought back its mummeries and nonsense into the
temples of the British Isles.

Scott during his lifetime had a crowd of imitators, who, whether they
wrote history so called—poetry so called—or novels—nobody would call a
book a novel if he could call it anything else—wrote Charlie o’er the
water nonsense; and now that he has been dead nearly a quarter of a
century, there are others daily springing up who are striving to imitate
Scott in his Charlie o’er the water nonsense—for nonsense it is, even
when flowing from his pen.  They, too, must write Jacobite histories,
Jacobite songs, and Jacobite novels, and much the same figure as the
scoundrel menials in the comedy cut when personating their masters, and
retailing their masters’ conversation, do they cut as Walter Scotts.  In
their histories, they too talk about the Prince and Glenfinnan, and the
pibroch; and in their songs about “Claverse” and “Bonny Dundee”.  But
though they may be Scots, they are not Walter Scotts.  But it is perhaps
chiefly in the novel that you see the veritable hog in armour; the time
of the novel is of course the ’15 or ’45; the hero a Jacobite, and
connected with one or other of the enterprises of those periods; and the
author, to show how unprejudiced he is, and what _original_ views he
takes of subjects, must needs speak up for Popery, whenever he has
occasion to mention it; though with all his originality, when he brings
his hero and the vagabonds with which he is concerned before a barricaded
house, belonging to the Whigs, he can make them get into it by no other
method than that which Scott makes his rioters employ to get into the
Tolbooth, _burning down_ the door.

To express the more than utter foolishness of this latter Charlie o’er
the water nonsense, whether in rhyme or prose, there is but one word, and
that word a Scotch word.  Scotch, the sorriest of jargons, compared with
which even Roth-Welsch is dignified and expressive, has yet one word to
express what would be inexpressible by any word or combination of words
in any language, or in any other jargon in the world; and very properly;
for as the nonsense is properly Scotch, so should the word be Scotch
which expresses it—that word is “fushionless,” pronounced _fooshionless_;
and when the writer has called the nonsense fooshionless—and he does call
it fooshionless—he has nothing more to say, but leaves the nonsense to
its fate.



CHAPTER VIII.
ON CANTING NONSENSE.


THE writer now wishes to say something on the subject of canting
nonsense, of which there is a great deal in England.  There are various
cants in England, amongst which is the religious cant.  He is not going
to discuss the subject of religious cant: lest, however, he should be
misunderstood, he begs leave to repeat that he is a sincere member of the
old-fashioned Church of England, in which he believes there is more
religion, and consequently less cant, than in any other Church in the
world; nor is he going to discuss many other cants; he shall content
himself with saying something about two—the temperance cant and the
unmanly cant.  Temperance canters say that, “it is unlawful to drink a
glass of ale”.  Unmanly canters say that “it is unlawful to use one’s
fists”.  The writer begs leave to tell both these species of canters that
they do not speak the words of truth.

It is very lawful to take a cup of ale, or wine, for the purpose of
cheering or invigorating yourself when you are faint and down-hearted;
and likewise to give a cup of ale or wine to others when they are in a
similar condition.  The Holy Scripture sayeth nothing to the contrary,
but rather encourageth people in so doing by the text, “Wine maketh glad
the heart of man”.  But it is not lawful to intoxicate yourself with
frequent cups of ale or wine, nor to make others intoxicated, nor does
the Holy Scripture say that it is.  The Holy Scripture no more says that
it is lawful to intoxicate yourself or others, than it says that it is
unlawful to take a cup of ale or wine yourself, or to give one to others.
Noah is not commended in the Scripture for making himself drunken on the
wine he brewed.  Nor is it said that the Saviour, when He supplied the
guests with first-rate wine at the marriage feast, told them to make
themselves drunk upon it.  He is said to have supplied them with
first-rate wine, but He doubtless left the quantity which each should
drink to each party’s reason and discretion.  When you set a good dinner
before your guests, you do not expect that they should gorge themselves
with the victuals you set before them.  Wine may be abused, and so may a
leg of mutton.

Second.  It is lawful for any one to use his fists in his own defence, or
in the defence of others, provided they can’t help themselves; but it is
not lawful to use them for purposes of tyranny or brutality.  If you are
attacked by a ruffian, as the elderly individual in _Lavengro_ is in the
inn yard, it is quite lawful, if you can, to give him as good a thrashing
as the elderly individual gave the brutal coachman; and if you see a
helpless woman—perhaps your own sister—set upon by a drunken lord, a
drunken coachman, or a drunken coalheaver, or a brute of any description,
either drunk or sober, it is not only lawful, but laudable to give them,
if you can, a good drubbing; but it is not lawful because you have a
strong pair of fists, and know how to use them, to go swaggering through
a fair, jostling against unoffending individuals; should you do so, you
would be served quite right if you were to get a drubbing, more
particularly if you were served out by some one less strong, but more
skilful than yourself—even as the coachman was served out by a pupil of
the immortal Broughton—sixty years old, it is true, but possessed of
Broughton’s guard and chop.  Moses is not blamed in the Scripture for
taking part with the oppressed, and killing an Egyptian persecutor.  We
are not told how Moses killed the Egyptian; but it is quite as creditable
to Moses to suppose that he killed the Egyptian by giving him a buffet
under the left ear, as by stabbing him with a knife.  It is true that the
Saviour in the New Testament tells His disciples to turn the left cheek
to be smitten, after they had received a blow on the right; but He was
speaking to people divinely inspired, or whom He intended divinely to
inspire—people selected by God for a particular purpose.  He likewise
tells these people to part with various articles of raiment when asked
for them, and to go a-travelling without money, and take no thought of
the morrow.  Are those exhortations carried out by very good people in
the present day?  Do Quakers, when smitten on the right cheek, turn the
left to the smiter?  When asked for their coat, do they say, “Friend,
take my shirt also?”  Has the Dean of Salisbury no purse?  Does the
Archbishop of Canterbury go to an inn, run up a reckoning, and then say
to his landlord, “Mistress, I have no coin?”  Assuredly the Dean has a
purse, and a tolerably well-filled one; and, assuredly, the Archbishop,
on departing from an inn, not only settles his reckoning, but leaves
something handsome for the servants, and does not say that he is
forbidden by the gospel to pay for what he has eaten, or the trouble he
has given, as a certain Spanish cavalier said he was forbidden by the
statutes of chivalry.  Now, to take the part of yourself, or the part of
the oppressed, with your fists, is quite as lawful in the present day as
it is to refuse your coat and your shirt also to any vagabond who may ask
for them, and not to refuse to pay for supper, bed and breakfast, at the
Feathers, or any other inn, after you have had the benefit of all three.

The conduct of Lavengro with respect to drink may, upon the whole, serve
as a model.  He is no drunkard, nor is he fond of intoxicating other
people; yet when the horrors are upon him he has no objection to go to a
public-house and call for a pint of ale, nor does he shrink from
recommending ale to others when they are faint and downcast.  In one
instance, it is true, he does what cannot be exactly justified; he
encourages the priest in the dingle, in more instances than one, in
drinking more hollands and water than is consistent with decorum.  He has
a motive indeed in doing so; a desire to learn from the knave in his cups
the plans and hopes of the Propaganda of Rome.  Such conduct, however,
was inconsistent with strict fair dealing and openness; and the author
advises all those whose consciences never reproach them for a single
unfair or covert act committed by them, to abuse him heartily for
administering hollands and water to the Priest of Rome.  In that instance
the hero is certainly wrong; yet in all other cases with regard to drink,
he is manifestly right.  To tell people that they are never to drink a
glass of ale or wine themselves, or to give one to others, is cant; and
the writer has no toleration for cant of any description.  Some cants are
not dangerous; but the writer believes that a more dangerous cant than
the temperance cant, or as it is generally called, teetotalism, is
scarcely to be found.  The writer is willing to believe that it
originated with well meaning, though weak people; but there can be no
doubt that it was quickly turned to account by people who were neither
well meaning nor weak.  Let the reader note particularly the purpose to
which this cry has been turned in America—the land, indeed, par
excellence, of humbug and humbug cries.  It is there continually in the
mouth of the most violent political party, and is made an instrument of
almost unexampled persecution.  The writer would say more on the
temperance cant, both in England and America, but want of space prevents
him.  There is one point on which he cannot avoid making a few brief
remarks—that is, the inconsistent conduct of its apostles in general.
The teetotal apostle says, it is a dreadful thing to be drunk.  So it is,
teetotaller; but if so, why do you get drunk?  I get drunk?  Yes, unhappy
man, why do you get drunk on smoke and passion?  Why are your garments
impregnated with the odour of the Indian weed?  Why is there a pipe or a
cigar always in your mouth?  Why is your language more dreadful than that
of a Poissarde?  Tobacco-smoke is more deleterious than ale, teetotaller;
bile more potent than brandy.  You are fond of telling your hearers what
an awful thing it is to die drunken.  So it is, teetotaller.  Then take
good care that you do not die with smoke and passion, drunken, and with
temperance language on your lips; that is, abuse and calumny against all
those who differ from you.  One word of sense you have been heard to say,
which is, that spirits may be taken as a medicine.  Now you are in a
fever of passion, teetotaller: so, pray take this tumbler of brandy; take
it on the homœopathic principle, that heat is to be expelled by heat.
You are in a temperance fury, so swallow the contents of this tumbler,
and it will, perhaps, cure you.  You look at the glass wistfully—you say
you occasionally take a glass medicinally—and it is probable you do.
Take one now.  Consider what a dreadful thing it would be to die passion
drunk; to appear before your Maker with intemperate language on your
lips.  That’s right!  You don’t seem to wince at the brandy.  That’s
right!—well done!  All down in two pulls.  Now you look like a reasonable
being!

If the conduct of Lavengro with regard to drink is open to little
censure, assuredly the use which he makes of his fists is entitled to
none at all.  Because he has a pair of tolerably strong fists, and knows
to a certain extent how to use them, is he a swaggerer or oppressor?  To
what ill account does he turn them?  Who more quiet, gentle and
inoffensive than he?  He beats off a ruffian who attacks him in a dingle;
has a kind of friendly tuzzle with Mr. Petulengro, and behold the extent
of his fistic exploits.

Ay, but he associates with prize-fighters; and that very fellow,
Petulengro, is a prize-fighter, and has fought for a stake in a ring.
Well, and if he had not associated with prize-fighters, how could he have
used his fists?  Oh, anybody can use his fists in his own defence,
without being taught by prize-fighters.  Can they?  Then why does not the
Italian, or Spaniard, or Afghan use his fists when insulted or outraged,
instead of having recourse to the weapons which he has recourse to?
Nobody can use his fists without being taught the use of them by those
who have themselves been taught, no more than any one can “whiffle”
without being taught by a master of the art.  Now let any man of the
present day try to whiffle.  Would not any one who wished to whiffle have
to go to a master of the art?  Assuredly! but where would he find one at
the present day?  The last of the whifflers hanged himself about a
fortnight ago on a bell-rope in a church steeple of “the old town,” from
pure grief that there was no further demand for the exhibition of his
art, there being no demand for whiffling since the discontinuation of
Guildhall banquets.  Whiffling is lost.  The old chap left his sword
behind him; let any one take up the old chap’s sword and try to whiffle.
Now much the same hand as he would make who should take up the whiffler’s
sword and try to whiffle, would he who should try to use his fists who
had never had the advantage of a master.  Let no one think that men use
their fists naturally in their own disputes—men have naturally recourse
to any other thing to defend themselves or to offend others; they fly to
the stick, to the stone, to the murderous and cowardly knife, or to abuse
as cowardly as the knife, and occasionally more murderous.  Now which is
best when you hate a person, or have a pique against a person, to clench
your fist and say “Come on,” or to have recourse to the stone, the knife,
or murderous calumny?  The use of the fist is almost lost in England.
Yet are the people better than they were when they knew how to use their
fists?  The writer believes not.  A fisty combat is at present a great
rarity, but the use of the knife, the noose, and of poison, to say
nothing of calumny, are of more frequent occurrence in England than
perhaps in any country in Europe.  Is polite taste better than when it
could bear the details of a fight?  The writer believes not.  Two men
cannot meet in a ring to settle a dispute in a manly manner without some
trumpery local newspaper letting loose a volley of abuse against “the
disgraceful exhibition,” in which abuse it is sure to be sanctioned by
its dainty readers; whereas some murderous horror, the discovery for
example of the mangled remains of a woman in some obscure den, is
greedily seized hold on by the moral journal, and dressed up for its
readers, who luxuriate and gloat upon the ghastly dish.  Now, the writer
of _Lavengro_ has no sympathy with those who would shrink from striking a
blow, but would not shrink from the use of poison or calumny; and his
taste has little in common with that which cannot tolerate the hardy
details of a prize-fight, but which luxuriates on descriptions of the
murder dens of modern England.  But prize-fighters and pugilists are
blackguards, a reviewer has said; and blackguards they would be provided
they employed their skill and their prowess for purposes of brutality and
oppression; but prize-fighters and pugilists are seldom friends to
brutality and oppression; and which is the blackguard, the writer would
ask: he who uses his fists to take his own part, or instructs others to
use theirs for the same purpose, or the being who from envy and malice,
or at the bidding of a malicious scoundrel, endeavours by calumny,
falsehood, and misrepresentation to impede the efforts of lonely and
unprotected genius?

One word more about the race, all but extinct, of the people
opprobriously called prize-fighters.  Some of them have been as noble,
kindly men as the world ever produced.  Can the rolls of the English
aristocracy exhibit names belonging to more noble, more heroic men than
those who were called respectively Pearce, Cribb and Spring?  Did ever
one of the English aristocracy contract the seeds of fatal consumption by
rushing up the stairs of a burning edifice, even to the topmost garret,
and rescuing a woman from seemingly inevitable destruction?  The writer
says no.  A woman was rescued from the top of a burning house; but the
man who rescued her was no aristocrat; it was Pearce, not Percy, who ran
up the burning stairs.  Did ever one of those glittering ones save a
fainting female from the libidinous rage of six ruffians?  The writer
believes not.  A woman was rescued from the libidinous fury of six
monsters on — Down; but the man who rescued her was no aristocrat; it was
Pearce not Paulet, who rescued the woman, and thrashed my Lord’s six
gamekeepers—Pearce, whose equal never was, and probably never will be,
found in sturdy combat.  Are there any of the aristocracy of whom it can
be said that they never did a cowardly, cruel or mean action, and that
they invariably took the part of the unfortunate and weak against cruelty
and oppression?  As much can be said of Cribb, of Spring, and the other;
but where is the aristocrat of whom as much can be said?  Wellington?
Wellington indeed! a skilful general, and a good man of valour, it is
true, but with that cant word of “duty” continually on his lips.  Did he
rescue Ney from his butchers?  Did he lend a helping hand to Warner?

In conclusion, the writer would advise those of his country-folks who
read his book to have nothing to do with the two kinds of canting
nonsense described above, but in their progress through life to enjoy as
well as they can, but always with moderation, the good things of this
world, to put confidence in God, to be as independent as possible, and to
take their own parts.  If they are low spirited, let them not make
themselves foolish by putting on sackcloth, drinking water, or chewing
ashes, but let them take wholesome exercise, and eat the most generous
food they can get, taking up and reading occasionally, not the lives of
Ignatius Loyola and Francis Spira, but something more agreeable; for
example, the life and adventures of Mr. Duncan Campbell, the deaf and
dumb gentleman; the travels of Captain Falconer in America, and the
journal of John Randall, who went to Virginia and married an Indian wife;
not forgetting, amidst their eating and drinking, their walks over
heaths, and by the sea-side, and their agreeable literature, to be
charitable to the poor, to read the Psalms and to go to church twice on a
Sunday.  In their dealings with people, to be courteous to everybody, as
Lavengro was, but always independent like him; and if people meddle with
them, to give them as good as they bring, even as he and Isopel Berners
were in the habit of doing; and it will be as well for him to observe
that he by no means advises women to be too womanly, but bearing the
conduct of Isopel Berners in mind, to take their own parts, and if
anybody strikes them, to strike again.

Beating of women by the lords of the creation has become very prevalent
in England since pugilism has been discountenanced.  Now the writer
strongly advises any woman who is struck by a ruffian to strike him
again; or if she cannot clench her fists, and he advises all women in
these singular times to learn to clench their fists, to go at him with
tooth and nail, and not to be afraid of the result, for any fellow who is
dastard enough to strike a woman, would allow himself to be beaten by a
woman, were she to make at him in self-defence, even if, instead of
possessing the stately height and athletic proportions of the aforesaid
Isopel, she were as diminutive in stature, and had a hand as delicate,
and foot as small, as a certain royal lady, who was some time ago
assaulted by a fellow upwards of six feet high, whom the writer has no
doubt she could have beaten had she thought proper to go at him.  Such is
the deliberate advice of the author to his countrymen and women—advice in
which he believes there is nothing unscriptural or repugnant to common
sense.

The writer is perfectly well aware that, by the plain language which he
has used in speaking of the various kinds of nonsense prevalent in
England, he shall make himself a multitude of enemies; but he is not
going to conceal the truth or to tamper with nonsense, from the fear of
provoking hostility.  He has a duty to perform and he will perform it
resolutely; he is the person who carried the Bible to Spain; and as
resolutely as he spoke in Spain against the superstitions of Spain, will
he speak in England against the nonsense of his own native land.  He is
not one of those who, before they sit down to write a book, say to
themselves, what cry shall we take up? what principles shall we advocate?
what principles shall we abuse? before we put pen to paper we must find
out what cry is the loudest, what principle has the most advocates,
otherwise, after having written our book, we may find ourselves on the
weaker side.

A sailor of the _Bounty_ waked from his sleep by the noise of the mutiny,
lay still in his hammock for some time, quite undecided whether to take
part with the captain or to join the mutineers.  “I must mind what I do,”
said he to himself, “lest, in the end, I find myself on the weaker side;”
finally, on hearing that the mutineers were successful, he went on deck,
and seeing Bligh pinioned to the mast, he put his fist to his nose, and
otherwise insulted him.  Now, there are many writers of the present day
whose conduct is very similar to that of the sailor.  They lie listening
in their corners till they have ascertained which principle has most
advocates; then, presently, they make their appearance on the deck of the
world with their book; if truth has been victorious, then has truth their
hurrah! but if truth is pinioned against the mast, then is their fist
thrust against the nose of truth, and their gibe and their insult spurted
in their face.  The strongest party had the sailor, and the strongest
party has almost invariably the writer of the present day.



CHAPTER IX.
PSEUDO-CRITICS.


A CERTAIN set of individuals calling themselves critics have attacked
_Lavengro_ with much virulence and malice.  If what they call criticism
had been founded on truth, the author would have had nothing to say.  The
book contains plenty of blemishes, some of them, by-the-bye, wilful ones,
as the writer will presently show; not one of these, however, has been
detected and pointed out; but the best passages in the book, indeed
whatever was calculated to make the book valuable, have been assailed
with abuse and misrepresentation.  The duty of the true critic is to play
the part of a leech, and not of a viper.  Upon true and upon malignant
criticism there is an excellent fable by the Spaniard Iriarte.  The viper
says to the leech, “Why do people invite your bite, and flee from mine?”
“Because,” says the leech, “people receive health from my bite, and
poison from yours.”  “There is as much difference,” says the clever
Spaniard, “between true and malignant criticism, as between poison and
medicine.”  Certainly a great many meritorious writers have allowed
themselves to be poisoned by malignant criticism; the writer, however, is
not one of those who allow themselves to be poisoned by pseudo-critics;
no! no! he will rather hold them up by their tails, and show the
creatures wriggling, blood and foam streaming from their broken jaws.
First of all, however, he will notice one of their objections.  “The book
isn’t true,” say they.  Now one of the principal reasons with those who
have attacked _Lavengro_ for their abuse of it is, that it is
particularly true in one instance, namely, that it exposes their own
nonsense, their love of humbug, their slavishness, their dressings, their
goings out, their scraping and bowing to great people; it is the showing
up of “gentility nonsense” in _Lavengro_ that has been one principal
reason for the raising the above cry; for in _Lavengro_, is denounced the
besetting folly of the English people, a folly which those who call
themselves guardians of the public taste are far from being above.  “We
can’t abide anything that isn’t true!” they exclaim.  Can’t they?  Then
why are they so enraptured with any fiction that is adapted to purposes
of humbug, which tends to make them satisfied with their own proceedings,
with their own nonsense, which does not tell them to reform, to become
more alive to their own failings, and less sensitive about the tyrannical
goings on of the masters, and the degraded condition, the sufferings, and
the trials of the serfs in the star Jupiter?  Had _Lavengro_, instead of
being the work of an independent mind, been written in order to further
any of the thousand and one cants, and species of nonsense prevalent in
England, the author would have heard much less about its not being true,
both from public detractors and private censurers.

“But _Lavengro_ pretends to be an autobiography,” say the critics; and
here the writer begs leave to observe, that it would be well for people
who profess to have a regard for truth, not to exhibit in every assertion
which they make a most profligate disregard of it; this assertion of
theirs is a falsehood, and they know it to be a falsehood.  In the
preface _Lavengro_ is stated to be a dream; and the writer takes this
opportunity of stating that he never said it was an autobiography; never
authorised any person to say that it was one; and that he has in
innumerable instances declared in public and private, both before and
after the work was published, that it was not what is generally termed an
autobiography: but a set of people who pretend to write criticisms on
books, hating the author for various reasons—amongst others, because,
having the proper pride of a gentleman and a scholar, he did not, in the
year ’43, choose to permit himself to be exhibited and made a zany of in
London, and especially because he will neither associate with, nor curry
favour with, them who are neither gentlemen nor scholars—attack his book
with abuse and calumny.  He is, perhaps, condescending too much when he
takes any notice of such people; as, however, the English public is
wonderfully led by cries and shouts, and generally ready to take part
against any person who is either unwilling or unable to defend himself,
he deems it advisable not to be altogether quiet with those who assail
him.  The best way to deal with vipers is to tear out their teeth; and
the best way to deal with pseudo-critics is to deprive them of their
poison-bag, which is easily done by exposing their ignorance.  The writer
knew perfectly well the description of people with whom he would have to
do, he therefore very quietly prepared a stratagem, by means of which he
could at any time exhibit them, powerless and helpless, in his hand.
Critics, when they review books, ought to have a competent knowledge of
the subjects which those books discuss.

_Lavengro_ is a philological book, a poem if you choose to call it so.
Now what a fine triumph it would have been for those who wished to vilify
the book and its author, provided they could have detected the latter
tripping in his philology—they might have instantly said that he was an
ignorant pretender to philology—they laughed at the idea of his taking up
a viper by its tail, a trick which hundreds of country urchins do every
September, but they were silent about the really wonderful part of the
book, the philological matter—they thought philology was his stronghold,
and that it would be useless to attack him there; they of course would
give him no credit as a philologist, for anything like fair treatment
towards him was not to be expected at their hands, but they were afraid
to attack his philology—yet that was the point, and the only point in
which they might have attacked him successfully; he was vulnerable there.
How was this?  Why, in order to have an opportunity of holding up
pseudo-critics by the tails, he wilfully spelt various foreign words
wrong—Welsh words, and even Italian words—did they detect these
mis-spellings? not one of them, even as he knew they would not, and he
now taunts them with ignorance; and the power of taunting them with
ignorance is the punishment which he designed for them—a power which they
might but for their ignorance have used against him.  The writer besides
knowing something of Italian and Welsh, knows a little of Armenian
language and literature; but who knowing anything of the Armenian
language, unless he had an end in view, would say, that the word for sea
in Armenian is anything like the word tide in English?  The word for sea
in Armenian is _dzow_, a word connected with the Tibetian word for water,
and the Chinese _shuy_, and the Turkish _su_, signifying the same thing;
but where is the resemblance between _dzow_ and tide?  Again, the word
for bread in ancient Armenian is _hats_; yet the Armenian on London
Bridge is made to say _zhats_, which is not the nominative of the
Armenian noun for bread, but the accusative: now, critics, ravening
against a man because he is a gentleman and a scholar, and has not only
the power but also the courage to write original works, why did not you
discover that weak point?  Why, because you were ignorant, so here ye are
held up!  Moreover, who with a name commencing with Z, ever wrote fables
in Armenian?  There are two writers of fables in Armenian—Varthan and
Koscht, and illustrious writers they are, one in the simple, and the
other in the ornate style of Armenian composition, but neither of their
names begins with a Z.  Oh, what a precious opportunity ye lost, ye
ravening crew, of convicting the poor, half-starved, friendless boy of
the book, of ignorance or misrepresentation, by asking who with a name
beginning with Z ever wrote fables in Armenian; but ye couldn’t help
yourselves, ye are duncie.  “We duncie!”  Ay, duncie.  So here ye are
held up by the tails, blood and foam streaming from your jaws.

The writer wishes to ask here, what do you think of all this, _Messieurs
les Critiques_?  Were ye ever served so before?  But don’t you richly
deserve it?  Haven’t you been for years past bullying and insulting
everybody whom you deemed weak, and currying favour with everybody whom
you thought strong?  “_We_ approve of this.  We disapprove of that.  Oh,
this will never do.  These are fine lines!”  The lines perhaps some
horrid sycophantic rubbish addressed to Wellington, or Lord So-and-so.
To have your ignorance thus exposed, to be shown up in this manner, and
by whom?  A gypsy!  Ay, a gypsy was the very right person to do it.  But
is it not galling, after all?

Ah, but _we_ don’t understand Armenian, it cannot be expected that _we_
should understand Armenian, or Welsh, or—.  Hey, what’s this?  The mighty
_we_ not understand Armenian or Welsh, or—.  Then why does the mighty
_we_ pretend to review a book like _Lavengro_?  From the arrogance with
which it continually delivers itself, one would think that the mighty
_we_ is omniscient; that it understands every language; is versed in
every literature; yet the mighty _we_ does not even know the word for
bread in Armenian.  It knows bread well enough by name in English, and
frequently bread in England only by its name, but the truth is, that the
mighty _we_, with all its pretension, is in general a very sorry
creature, who, instead of saying _nous disons_, should rather say _nous
dis_: Parny in his _Guerre des Dieux_, very profanely makes the three in
one say, _Je faisons_; now, Lavengro, who is anything but profane, would
suggest that critics, especially magazine and Sunday newspaper critics,
should commence with _nous dis_, as the first word would be significant
of the conceit and assumption of the critic, and the second of the extent
of the critic’s information.  The _we_ says its say, but when fawning
sycophancy or vulgar abuse are taken from that say, what remains?  Why a
blank, a void, like Ginnungagap.

As the writer, of his own accord, has exposed some of the blemishes of
his book—a task, which a competent critic ought to have done—he will now
point out two or three of its merits, which any critic, not altogether
blinded with ignorance, might have done, or not replete with gall and
envy would have been glad to do.  The book has the merit of communicating
a fact connected with physiology, which in all the pages of the multitude
of books was never previously mentioned—the mysterious practice of
touching objects to baffle the evil chance.  The miserable detractor
will, of course, instantly begin to rave about such a habit being common:
well and good; but was it ever before described in print, or all
connected with it dissected?  He may then vociferate something about
Johnson having touched: the writer cares not whether Johnson, who,
by-the-bye, during the last twenty or thirty years, owing to people
having become ultra Tory mad from reading Scott’s novels and the
_Quarterly Review_, has been a mighty favourite, especially with some who
were in the habit of calling him a half crazy old fool—touched, or
whether he did or not; but he asks where did Johnson ever describe the
feelings which induced him to perform the magic touch, even supposing
that he did perform it?  Again, the history gives an account of a certain
book called the _Sleeping Bard_, the most remarkable prose work of the
most difficult language but one, of modern Europe,—a book, for a notice
of which, he believes, one might turn over in vain the pages of any
review printed in England, or, indeed, elsewhere.  So here are two facts,
one literary and the other physiological, for which any candid critic was
bound to thank the author, even as in _the Romany Rye_ there is a fact
connected with Iro-Norman Myth, for the disclosing of which, any person
who pretends to have a regard for literature is bound to thank him,
namely, that the mysterious Finn or Fingal of _Ossian’s Poems_ is one and
the same person as the Sigurd Fafnisbane of the Edda and the Wilkina, and
the Siegfried Horn of the Lay of the Niebelungs.

The writer might here conclude, and, he believes, most triumphantly; as,
however, he is in the cue for writing, which he seldom is, he will for
his own gratification, and for the sake of others, dropping metaphors
about vipers and serpents, show up in particular two or three sets or
cliques of people, who, he is happy to say, have been particularly
virulent against him and his work, for nothing indeed could have given
him greater mortification than their praise.

In the first place, he wishes to dispose of certain individuals who call
themselves men of wit and fashion—about town—who he is told have abused
his book “vaustly”—their own word.  These people paint their cheeks, wear
white kid gloves, and dabble in literature, or what they conceive to be
literature.  For abuse from such people, the writer was prepared.  Does
any one imagine that the writer was not well aware, before he published
his book, that, whenever he gave it to the world, he should be attacked
by every literary coxcomb in England who had influence enough to procure
the insertion of a scurrilous article in a magazine or newspaper!  He has
been in Spain, and has seen how invariably the mule attacks the horse;
now why does the mule attack the horse?  Why, because the latter carries
about with him that which the envious hermaphrodite does not possess.

They consider, forsooth, that his book is low—but he is not going to
waste words about them—one or two of whom, he is told, have written very
duncie books about Spain, and are highly enraged with him, because
certain books which he wrote about Spain were not considered duncie.  No,
he is not going to waste words upon them, for verily he dislikes their
company, and so he’ll pass them by, and proceed to others.

The Scotch Charlie o’er the water people have been very loud in the abuse
of _Lavengro_—this again might be expected; the sarcasms of the priest
about the Charlie o’er the water nonsense of course stung them.  Oh! it
is one of the claims which _Lavengro_ has to respect, that it is the
first, if not the only work, in which that nonsense is, to a certain
extent, exposed.  Two or three of their remarks on passages of
_Lavengro_, he will reproduce and laugh at.  Of course your Charlie o’er
the water people are genteel exceedingly, and cannot abide anything low.
Gypsyism they think is particularly low, and the use of gypsy words in
literature beneath its gentility; so they object to gypsy words being
used in _Lavengro_ where gypsies are introduced speaking—“What is Romany
forsooth?” say they.  Very good!  And what is Scotch? has not the public
been nauseated with Scotch for the last thirty years?  “Ah, but Scotch is
not”—the writer believes he knows much better than the Scotch what Scotch
is and what it is not; he has told them before what it is: a very sorry
jargon.  He will now tell them what it is not—a sister or an immediate
daughter of the Sanscrit, which Romany is.  “Ay, but the Scotch
are”—foxes, foxes, nothing else than foxes, even like the gypsies—the
difference between the gypsy and Scotch fox being that the first is wild,
with a mighty brush, the other a sneak with a gilt collar and without a
tail.

A Charlie o’er the water person attempts to be witty, because the writer
has said that perhaps a certain old Edinburgh High-School porter, of the
name of Boee, was perhaps of the same blood as a certain Bui, a Northern
Kemp who distinguished himself at the battle of Horinger Bay.  A pretty
matter, forsooth, to excite the ridicule of a Scotchman!  Why, is there a
beggar or trumpery fellow in Scotland, who does not pretend to be
somebody, or related to somebody?  Is not every Scotchman descended from
some king, kemp or cow-stealer of old, by his own account at least?  Why,
the writer would even go so far as to bet a trifle that the poor
creature, who ridicules Boee’s supposed ancestry, has one of his own, at
least as grand and as apocryphal as old Boee’s of the High School.

The same Charlie o’er the water person is mightily indignant that
Lavengro should have spoken disrespectfully of William Wallace; Lavengro,
when he speaks of that personage, being a child of about ten years old,
and repeating merely what he had heard.  All the Scotch, by-the-bye, for
a great many years past, have been great admirers of William Wallace,
particularly the Charlie o’er the water people, who in their
nonsense-verses about Charlie generally contrive to bring in the name of
William, Willie, or Wullie, Wallace.  The writer begs leave to say that
he by no means wishes to bear hard against William Wallace, but he cannot
help asking why, if William, Willie, or Wullie, Wallace was such a
particularly nice person, did his brother Scots betray him to a certain
renowned southern warrior, called Edward Longshanks, who caused him to be
hanged and cut into four in London, and his quarters to be placed over
the gates of certain towns?  They got gold, it is true, and titles, very
nice things, no doubt; but, surely, the life of a patriot is better than
all the gold and titles in the world—at least Lavengro thinks so—but
Lavengro has lived more with gypsies than Scotchmen, and gypsies do not
betray their brothers.  It would be some time before a gypsy would hand
over his brother to the harum-beck, even supposing you would not only
make him a king, but a justice of the peace, and not only give him the
world, but the best farm on the Holkham estate; but gypsies are wild
foxes, and there is certainly a wonderful difference between the way of
thinking of the wild fox who retains his brush, and that of the scurvy
kennel creature who has lost his tail.

Ah! but thousands of Scotch, and particularly the Charlie o’er the water
people, will say, “We didn’t sell Willie Wallace, it was our forbears who
sold Willie Wallace—  If Edward Longshanks had asked us to sell Wullie
Wallace, we would soon have shown him that—”  Lord better ye, ye poor
trumpery set of creatures, ye would not have acted a bit better than your
forefathers; remember how ye have ever treated the few amongst ye who,
though born in the kennel, have shown something of the spirit of the
wood.  Many of ye are still alive who delivered over men, quite as honest
and patriotic as William Wallace, into the hands of an English minister,
to be chained and transported for merely venturing to speak and write in
the cause of humanity, at the time when Europe was beginning to fling off
the chains imposed by kings and priests.  And it is not so very long
since Burns, to whom ye are now building up obelisks rather higher than
he deserves, was permitted by his countrymen to die in poverty and
misery, because he would not join with them in songs of adulation to
kings and the trumpery great.  So say not that ye would have acted with
respect to William Wallace one whit better than your fathers—and you in
particular, ye children of Charlie, whom do ye write nonsense-verses
about?  A family of dastard despots, who did their best, during a century
and more, to tread out the few sparks of independent feeling still
glowing in Scotland—but enough has been said about ye.

Amongst those who have been prodigal in abuse and defamation of
_Lavengro_, have been your modern Radicals, and particularly a set of
people who filled the country with noise against the King and Queen,
Wellington, and the Tories, in ’32.  About these people the writer will
presently have occasion to say a good deal, and also of real Radicals.
As, however, it may be supposed that he is one of those who delight to
play the sycophant to kings and queens, to curry favour with Tories, and
to bepraise Wellington, he begs leave to state that such is not the case.

About kings and queens he has nothing to say; about Tories, simply that
he believes them to be a bad set; about Wellington, however, it will be
necessary for him to say a good deal, of mixed import, as he will
subsequently frequently have occasion to mention him in connection with
what he has to say about pseudo-Radicals.



CHAPTER X.
PSEUDO-RADICALS.


ABOUT Wellington, then, he says, that he believes him at the present day
to be infinitely overrated.  But there certainly was a time when he was
shamefully underrated.  Now what time was that?  Why the time of
pseudo-Radicalism, par excellence, from ’20 to ’32.  Oh, the abuse that
was heaped on Wellington by those who traded in Radical cant—your
newspaper editors and review writers! and how he was sneered at then by
your Whigs, and how faintly supported he was by your Tories, who were
half ashamed of him; for your Tories, though capital fellows as
followers, when you want nobody to back you, are the faintest creatures
in the world when you cry in your agony, “Come and help me!”  Oh,
assuredly Wellington was infamously used at that time, especially by your
traders in Radicalism, who howled at and hooted him; said he had every
vice—was no general—was beaten at Waterloo—was a poltroon—moreover a poor
illiterate creature, who could scarcely read or write; nay, a principal
Radical paper said boldly he could not read, and devised an ingenious
plan for teaching Wellington how to read.  Now this was too bad; and the
writer, being a lover of justice, frequently spoke up for Wellington,
saying, that as for vice, he was not worse than his neighbours; that he
was brave; that he won the fight at Waterloo, from a half-dead man, it is
true, but that he did win it.  Also, that he believed he had read _Rules
for the Manual and Platoon Exercises_ to some purpose; moreover, that he
was sure he could write, for that he the writer had once written to
Wellington, and had received an answer from him; nay, the writer once
went so far as to strike a blow for Wellington; for the last time he used
his fists was upon a Radical sub-editor, who was mobbing Wellington in
the street, from behind a rank of grimy fellows.  But though the writer
spoke up for Wellington to a certain extent when he was shamefully
underrated, and once struck a blow for him when he was about being
hustled, he is not going to join in the loathsome sycophantic nonsense
which it has been the fashion to use with respect to Wellington these
last twenty years.  Now what have those years been to England!  Why the
years of ultra-gentility, everybody in England having gone gentility mad
during the last twenty years, and no people more so than your
pseudo-Radicals.  Wellington was turned out, and your Whigs and Radicals
got in, and then commenced the period of ultra-gentility in England.  The
Whigs and Radicals only hated Wellington as long as the patronage of the
country was in his hands, none of which they were tolerably sure he would
bestow on them; but no sooner did they get it into their own, than they
forthwith became admirers of Wellington.  And why?  Because he was a
duke, petted at Windsor and by foreign princes, and a very genteel
personage.  Formerly many of your Whigs and Radicals had scarcely a
decent coat on their backs; but now the plunder of the country was at
their disposal, and they had as good a chance of being genteel as any
people.  So they were willing to worship Wellington because he was very
genteel, and could not keep the plunder of the country out of their
hands.  And Wellington has been worshipped, and prettily so, during the
last fifteen or twenty years.  He is now a noble fine-hearted creature;
the greatest general the world ever produced; the bravest of men;
and—and—mercy upon us! the greatest of military writers!  Now the present
writer will not join in such sycophancy.  As he was not afraid to take
the part of Wellington when he was scurvily used by all parties, and when
it was dangerous to take his part, so he is not afraid to speak the naked
truth about Wellington in these days, when it is dangerous to say
anything about him but what is sycophantically laudatory.  He said in
’32, that as to vice, Wellington was not worse than his neighbours; but
he is not going to say in ’54, that Wellington was a noble-hearted
fellow; for he believes that a more cold-hearted individual never
existed.  His conduct to Warner, the poor Vaudois, and Marshal Ney,
showed that.  He said in ’32, that he was a good general and a brave man;
but he is not going, in ’54, to say that he was the best general, or the
bravest man, the world ever saw.  England has produced a better
general—France two or three—both countries many braver men.  The son of
the Norfolk clergyman was a brave man; Marshal Ney was a braver man.  Oh,
that battle of Copenhagen!  Oh, that covering the retreat of the Grand
Army!  And though he said in ’32 that he could write, he is not going to
say in ’54 that he is the best of all military writers.  On the contrary,
he does not hesitate to say that any Commentary of Julius Cæsar, or any
chapter in Justinus, more especially the one about the Parthians, is
worth the ten volumes of Wellington’s Despatches; though he has no doubt
that, by saying so, he shall especially rouse the indignation of a
certain newspaper, at present one of the most genteel journals
imaginable—with a slight tendency to liberalism, it is true, but
perfectly genteel—which is nevertheless the very one which, in ’32, swore
bodily that Wellington could neither read nor write and devised an
ingenious plan for teaching him how to read.

Now, after the above statement, no one will venture to say, if the writer
should be disposed to bear hard upon Radicals, that he would be
influenced by a desire to pay court to princes, or to curry favour with
Tories, or from being a blind admirer of the Duke of Wellington; but the
writer is not going to declaim against Radicals, that is, real
Republicans, or their principles; upon the whole, he is something of an
admirer of both.  The writer has always had as much admiration for
everything that is real and honest as he has had contempt for the
opposite.  Now real Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, a much
finer thing than Toryism, a system of common robbery, which is
nevertheless far better than Whiggism {364}—a compound of petty larceny,
popular instruction, and receiving of stolen goods.  Yes, real
Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, and your real Radicals and
Republicans are certainly very fine fellows, or rather were fine fellows,
for the Lord only knows where to find them at the present day—the writer
does not.  If he did, he would at any time go five miles to invite one of
them to dinner, even supposing that he had to go to a workhouse in order
to find the person he wished to invite.  Amongst the real Radicals of
England, those who flourished from the year ’16 to ’20, there were
certainly extraordinary characters, men partially insane, perhaps, but
honest and brave—they did not make a market of the principles which they
professed, and never intended to do so; they believed in them, and were
willing to risk their lives in endeavouring to carry them out.  The
writer wishes to speak in particular of two of these men, both of whom
perished on the scaffold—their names were Thistlewood and Ings.
Thistlewood, the best known of them, was a brave soldier and had served
with distinction as an officer in the French service; he was one of the
excellent swordsmen of Europe; had fought several duels in France, where
it is no child’s play to fight a duel; but had never unsheathed his sword
for single combat, but in defence of the feeble and insulted—he was kind
and open-hearted, but of too great simplicity; he had once ten thousand
pounds left him, all of which he lent to a friend, who disappeared and
never returned him a penny.  Ings was an uneducated man, of very low
stature, but amazing strength and resolution; he was a kind husband and
father, and though a humble butcher, the name he bore was one of the
royal names of the heathen Anglo-Saxons.  These two men, along with five
others, were executed, and their heads hacked off, for levying war
against George the Fourth; the whole seven dying in a manner which
extorted cheers from the populace, the most of them uttering
philosophical or patriotic sayings.  Thistlewood, who was, perhaps, the
most calm and collected of all, just before he was turned off, said, “We
are now going to discover the great secret”.  Ings, the moment before he
was choked, was singing “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.”  Now there was
no humbug about those men, nor about many more of the same time and of
the same principles.  They might be deluded about Republicanism, as
Algernon Sidney was, and as Brutus was, but they were as honest and brave
as either Brutus or Sidney, and as willing to die for their principles.
But the Radicals who succeeded them were beings of a very different
description; they jobbed and traded in Republicanism, and either parted
with it, or at the present day are eager to part with it, for a
consideration.  In order to get the Whigs into power, and themselves
places, they brought the country by their inflammatory language to the
verge of a revolution, and were the cause that many perished on the
scaffold; by their incendiary harangues and newspaper articles they
caused the Bristol conflagration, for which six poor creatures were
executed; they encouraged the mob to pillage, pull down and burn, and
then rushing into garrets looked on.  Thistlewood tells the mob the Tower
is a second Bastile; let it be pulled down.  A mob tries to pull down the
Tower; but Thistlewood is at the head of that mob; he is not peeping from
a garret on Tower Hill like Gulliver at Lisbon.  Thistlewood and Ings say
to twenty ragged individuals, Liverpool and Castlereagh are two
satellites of despotism; it would be highly desirable to put them out of
the way.  And a certain number of ragged individuals are surprised in a
stable in Cato Street, making preparations to put Castlereagh and
Liverpool out of the way, and are fired upon with muskets by Grenadiers,
and are hacked at with cutlasses by Bow Street runners; but the twain who
encouraged those ragged individuals to meet in Cato Street are not far
off, they are not on the other side of the river, in the Borough, for
example, in some garret or obscure cellar.  The very first to confront
the Guards and runners are Thistlewood and Ings; Thistlewood whips his
long thin rapier through Smithers’ lungs, and Ings makes a dash at
Fitzclarence with his butcher’s knife.  Oh, there was something in those
fellows! honesty and courage; but can as much be said for the inciters of
the troubles of ’32?  No; they egged on poor ignorant mechanics and
rustics, and got them hanged for pulling down and burning, whilst the
highest pitch to which their own daring ever mounted was to mob
Wellington as he passed in the streets.

Now, these people were humbugs, which Thistlewood and Ings were not.
They raved and foamed against kings, queens, Wellington, the aristocracy,
and what not, till they had got the Whigs into power, with whom they were
in secret alliance, and with whom they afterwards openly joined in a
system of robbery and corruption, more flagitious than the old Tory one,
because there was more cant about it; for themselves they got
consulships, commissionerships, and in some instances governments; for
their sons clerkships in public offices; and there you may see those sons
with the never-failing badge of the low scoundrel-puppy, the gilt chain
at the waistcoat-pocket; and there you may hear and see them using the
languishing tones, and employing the airs and graces which wenches use
and employ, who, without being in the family way, wish to make their
keepers believe that they are in the family way.  Assuredly great is the
cleverness of your Radicals of ’32, in providing for themselves and their
families.  Yet, clever as they are, there is one thing they cannot
do—they get governments for themselves, commissionerships for their
brothers, clerkships for their sons, but there is one thing beyond their
craft—they cannot get husbands for their daughters, who, too ugly for
marriage, and with their heads filled with the nonsense they have imbibed
from gentility-novels, go over from Socinus to the Pope, becoming sisters
in fusty convents, or having heard a few sermons in Mr. Platitude’s
“chapelle,” seek for admission at the establishment of mother S—, who,
after employing them for a time in various menial offices, and making
them pluck off their eyebrows, hair by hair, generally dismisses them on
the plea of sluttishness; whereupon they return to their papas to eat the
bread of the country, with the comfortable prospect of eating it still in
the shape of a pension after their sires are dead.  Papa (_ex uno disce
omnes_) living as quietly as he can; not exactly enviably, it is true,
being now and then seen to cast an uneasy and furtive glance behind, even
as an animal is wont, who has lost by some mischance a very sightly
appendage; as quietly however as he can, and as dignifiedly, a great
admirer of every genteel thing and genteel personage, the Duke in
particular, whose _Despatches_, bound in red morocco, you will find on
his table.  A disliker of coarse expressions, and extremes of every kind,
with a perfect horror for revolutions and attempts to revolutionise,
exclaiming now and then, as a shriek escapes from whipped and bleeding
Hungary, a groan from gasping Poland, and a half-stifled curse from
down-trodden but scowling Italy, “Confound the revolutionary _canaille_,
why can’t it be quiet!” in a word, putting one in mind of the _parvenu_
in the _Walpurgis Nacht_.  The writer is no admirer of Goethe, but the
idea of that _parvenu_ was certainly a good one—yes, putting one in mind
of the individual who says:—

    “Wir waren wahrlich auch nicht dumm,
       Und thaten oft was wir nicht sollten;
    Doch jetzo kehrt sich alles um und um,
       Und eben da wir’s fest erhalten wollten.”

    We were no fools, as every one discern’d,
       And stopp’d at nought our projects in fulfilling;
    But now the world seems topsy-turvy turn’d,
       To keep it quiet just when we were willing.

Now, this class of individuals entertain a mortal hatred for _Lavengro_
and its writer, and never lose an opportunity of vituperating both.  It
is true that such hatred is by no means surprising.  There is certainly a
great deal of difference between Lavengro and their own sons; the one
thinking of independence and philology, whilst he is clinking away at
kettles, and hammering horse-shoes in dingles; the others stuck up at
public offices with gilt chains at their waistcoat-pockets, and giving
themselves the airs and graces of females of a certain description.  And
there certainly _is_ a great deal of difference between the author of
_Lavengro_ and themselves—he retaining his principles and his brush; they
with scarlet breeches on, it is true, but without their republicanism and
their tails.  Oh, the writer can well afford to be vituperated by your
pseudo-Radicals of ’32!

Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his wife; but
the matter is too rich not to require a chapter to itself.



CHAPTER XI.
THE OLD RADICAL.


    “This very dirty man, with his very dirty face,
    Would do any dirty act, which would get him a place.”

SOME time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his wife; but
before he relates the manner in which they set upon him, it will be as
well to enter upon a few particulars tending to elucidate their reasons
for so doing.

The writer had just entered into his eighteenth year, when he met at the
table of a certain Anglo-Germanist an individual, apparently somewhat
under thirty, of middle stature, a thin and weaselly figure, a sallow
complexion, a certain obliquity of vision, and a large pair of
spectacles.  This person, who had lately come from abroad, and had
published a volume of translations, had attracted some slight notice in
the literary world, and was looked upon as a kind of lion in a small
provincial capital.  After dinner he argued a great deal, spoke
vehemently against the Church, and uttered the most desperate Radicalism
that was perhaps ever heard, saying, he hoped that in a short time there
would not be a king or queen in Europe, and inveighing bitterly against
the English aristocracy, and against the Duke of Wellington in
particular, whom he said, if he himself was ever president of an English
republic—an event which he seemed to think by no means improbable—he
would hang for certain infamous acts of profligacy and bloodshed which he
had perpetrated in Spain.  Being informed that the writer was something
of a philologist, to which character the individual in question laid
great pretensions, he came and sat down by him, and talked about
languages and literature.  The writer, who was only a boy, was a little
frightened at first, but, not wishing to appear a child of absolute
ignorance, he summoned what little learning he had, and began to blunder
out something about the Celtic languages and their literature, and asked
the Lion who he conceived Finn Ma Coul to be? and whether he did not
consider the “Ode to the Fox,” by Red Rhys of Eryry, to be a masterpiece
of pleasantry?  Receiving no answer to these questions from the Lion,
who, singular enough, would frequently, when the writer put a question to
him, look across the table, and flatly contradict some one who was
talking to some other person, the writer dropped the Celtic languages and
literature, and asked him whether he did not think it a funny thing that
Temugin, generally called Genghis Khan, should have married the daughter
of Prester John? {369}  The Lion, after giving a side-glance at the
writer through his left spectacle glass, seemed about to reply, but was
unfortunately prevented, being seized with an irresistible impulse to
contradict a respectable doctor of medicine, who was engaged in
conversation with the master of the house at the upper and farther end of
the table, the writer being a poor ignorant lad, sitting of course at the
bottom.  The doctor, who had served in the Peninsula, having observed
that Ferdinand the Seventh was not quite so bad as had been represented,
the Lion vociferated that he was ten times worse, and that he hoped to
see him and the Duke of Wellington hanged together.  The doctor, who,
being a Welshman, was somewhat of a warm temper, growing rather red, said
that at any rate he had been informed that Ferdinand the Seventh knew
sometimes how to behave himself like a gentleman—this brought on a long
dispute, which terminated rather abruptly.  The Lion having observed that
the doctor must not talk about Spanish matters with one who had visited
every part of Spain, the doctor bowed, and said he was right, for that he
believed no people in general possessed such accurate information about
countries as those who had travelled them as bagmen.  On the Lion asking
the doctor what he meant, the Welshman, whose under jaw began to move
violently, replied, that he meant what he said.  Here the matter ended,
for the Lion turning from him, looked at the writer.  The writer,
imagining that his own conversation hitherto had been too trivial and
common-place for the Lion to consider it worth his while to take much
notice of it, determined to assume a little higher ground, and after
repeating a few verses of the Koran, and gabbling a little Arabic, asked
the Lion what he considered to be the difference between the Hegira and
the Christian era, adding, that he thought the general computation was in
error by about one year; and being a particularly modest person, chiefly,
he believes, owing to his having been at school in Ireland, absolutely
blushed at finding that the Lion returned not a word in answer.  “What a
wonderful individual I am seated by,” thought he, “to whom Arabic seems a
vulgar speech, and a question about the Hegira not worthy of an answer!”
not reflecting that as lions come from the Sahara, they have quite enough
of Arabic at home, and that the question about the Hegira was rather _mal
à propos_ to one used to prey on the flesh of hadjis.  “Now I only wish
he would vouchsafe me a little of his learning,” thought the boy to
himself, and in this wish he was at last gratified; for the Lion, after
asking him whether he was acquainted at all with the Sclavonian
languages, and being informed that he was not, absolutely dumb-foundered
him by a display of Sclavonian erudition.

Years rolled by—the writer was a good deal about, sometimes in London,
sometimes in the country, sometimes abroad; in London he occasionally met
the man of the spectacles, who was always very civil to him, and, indeed,
cultivated his acquaintance.  The writer thought it rather odd that,
after he himself had become acquainted with the Sclavonian languages and
literature, the man of the spectacles talked little or nothing about
them.  In a little time, however, the matter ceased to cause him the
slightest surprise, for he had discovered a key to the mystery.  In the
meantime the man of spectacles was busy enough; he speculated in
commerce, failed, and paid his creditors twenty pennies in the pound;
published translations, of which the public at length became heartily
tired; having, indeed, got an inkling of the manner in which those
translations were got up.  He managed, however, to ride out many a storm,
having one trusty sheet-anchor—Radicalism.  This he turned to the best
advantage—writing pamphlets and articles in reviews, all in the Radical
interest, and for which he was paid out of the Radical fund; which
articles and pamphlets, when Toryism seemed to reel on its last legs,
exhibited a slight tendency to Whiggism.  Nevertheless, his abhorrence of
desertion of principle was so great in the time of the Duke of
Wellington’s administration, that when S— left the Whigs and went over,
he told the writer, who was about that time engaged with him in a
literary undertaking, that the said S— was a fellow with a character so
infamous, that any honest man would rather that you should spit in his
face than insult his ears with the mention of the name of S—.

The literary project having come to nothing,—in which, by-the-bye, the
writer was to have all the labour, and his friend all the credit,
provided any credit should accrue from it,—the writer did not see the
latter for some years, during which time considerable political changes
took place; the Tories were driven from, and the Whigs placed in, office,
both events being brought about by the Radicals coalescing with the
Whigs, over whom they possessed great influence for the services which
they had rendered.  When the writer next visited his friend, he found him
very much altered; his opinions were by no means so exalted as they had
been—he was not disposed even to be rancorous against the Duke of
Wellington, saying that there were worse men than he, and giving him some
credit as a general; a hankering after gentility seeming to pervade the
whole family, father and sons, wife and daughters, all of whom talked
about genteel diversions—gentility-novels, and even seemed to look with
favour on high Churchism, having in former years, to all appearance, been
bigoted Dissenters.  In a little time the writer went abroad; as, indeed,
did his friend; not, however, like the writer, at his own expense, but at
that of the country—the Whigs having given him a travelling appointment,
which he held for some years, during which he is said to have received
upwards of twelve thousand pounds of the money of the country, for
services which will, perhaps, be found inscribed on certain tablets, when
another Astolfo shall visit the moon.  This appointment, however, he lost
on the Tories resuming power—when the writer found him almost as Radical
and patriotic as ever, just engaged in trying to get into Parliament,
into which he got by the assistance of his Radical friends, who, in
conjunction with the Whigs, were just getting up a crusade against the
Tories, which they intended should be a conclusive one.

A little time after the publication of _The Bible in Spain_, the Tories
being still in power, this individual, full of the most disinterested
friendship for the author, was particularly anxious that he should be
presented with an official situation, in a certain region a great many
miles off.  “You are the only person for that appointment,” said he; “you
understand a great deal about the country, and are better acquainted with
the two languages spoken there than any one in England.  Now I love my
country, and have, moreover, a great regard for you, and as I am in
Parliament, and have frequent opportunities of speaking to the Ministry,
I shall take care to tell them how desirable it would be to secure your
services.  It is true they are Tories, but I think that even Tories would
give up their habitual love of jobbery in a case like yours, and for once
show themselves disposed to be honest men and gentlemen; indeed, I have
no doubt they will; for, having so deservedly an infamous character, they
would be glad to get themselves a little credit, by a presentation which
could not possibly be traced to jobbery or favouritism.”  The writer
begged his friend to give himself no trouble about the matter, as he was
not desirous of the appointment, being in tolerably easy circumstances,
and willing to take some rest after a life of labour.  All, however, that
he could say was of no use, his friend indignantly observing that the
matter ought to be taken entirely out of his hands, and the appointment
thrust upon him for the credit of the country.  “But may not many people
be far more worthy of the appointment than myself?” said the writer.
“Where?” said the friendly Radical.  “If you don’t get it, it will be
made a job of, given to the son of some steward, or, perhaps, to some
quack who has done dirty work; I tell you what, I shall ask it for you,
in spite of you; I shall, indeed!” and his eyes flashed with friendly and
patriotic fervour through the large pair of spectacles which he wore.

And, in fact, it would appear that the honest and friendly patriot put
his threat into execution.  “I have spoken,” said he, “more than once to
this and that individual in Parliament, and everybody seems to think that
the appointment should be given to you.  Nay, that you should be forced
to accept it.  I intend next to speak to Lord A—.”  {372a}  And so he
did, at least it would appear so.  On the writer calling upon him one
evening, about a week afterwards, in order to take leave of him, as the
writer was about to take a long journey for the sake of his health, his
friend no sooner saw him than he started up in a violent fit of
agitation, and glancing about the room, in which there were several
people, amongst others two Whig members of Parliament, said: “I am glad
you are come, I was just speaking about you.  This,” said he, addressing
the two members, “is so-and-so, the author of so-and-so, the well-known
philologist; as I was telling you, I spoke to Lord A— {372b} this day
about him, and said that he ought forthwith to have the head appointment
in —; and what did the fellow say?  Why, that there was no necessity for
such an appointment at all, and if there were, why—and then he hummed and
ha’d.  Yes,” said he, looking at the writer, “he did indeed.  What a
scandal! what an infamy!  But I see how it will be, it will be a job.
The place will be given to some son of a steward or to some quack, as I
said before.  Oh, these Tories!  Well, if this does not make one—”  Here
he stopped short, crunched his teeth, and looked the image of
desperation.

Seeing the poor man in this distressed condition, the writer begged him
to be comforted, and not to take the matter so much to heart; but the
indignant Radical took the matter very much to heart, and refused all
comfort whatever, bouncing about the room, and, whilst his spectacles
flashed in the light of four spermaceti candles, exclaiming: “It will be
a job—a Tory job!  I see it all, I see it all, I see it all!”

And a job it proved, and a very pretty job, but no Tory job.  Shortly
afterwards the Tories were out, and the Whigs were in.  From that time
the writer heard not a word about the injustice done to the country, in
not presenting him with the appointment to —; the Radical, however, was
busy enough to obtain the appointment, not for the writer, but for
himself and eventually succeeded, partly through Radical influence, and
partly through that of a certain Whig lord, for whom the Radical had
done, on a particular occasion, work of a particular kind.  So, though
the place was given to a quack, and the whole affair a very pretty job,
it was one in which the Tories had certainly no hand.

In the meanwhile, however, the friendly Radical did not drop the writer.
Oh, no!  On various occasions he obtained from the writer all the
information about the country in question, and was particularly anxious
to obtain from the writer, and eventually did obtain, a copy of a work
written in the court language of that country, edited by the writer, a
language exceedingly difficult, which the writer, at the expense of a
considerable portion of his eyesight, had acquired, at least as far as by
the eyesight it could be acquired.  What use the writer’s friend made of
the knowledge he had gained from him, and what use he made of the book,
the writer can only guess; but he has little doubt that when the question
of sending a person to — was mooted in a Parliamentary Committee—which it
was at the instigation of the Radical supporters of the writer’s
friend—the Radical on being examined about the country, gave the
information which he had obtained from the writer as his own, and flashed
the book and its singular characters in the eyes of the Committee; and
then of course his Radical friends would instantly say: “This is the man!
there is no one like him.  See what information he possesses; and see
that book written by himself in the court language of Serendib.  This is
the only man to send there.  What a glory, what a triumph it would be to
Britain, to send out a man so deeply versed in the mysterious lore of —,
as our illustrious countryman; a person who with his knowledge could beat
with their own weapons the wise men of —!  Is such an opportunity to be
lost?  Oh, no, surely not; if it is, it will be an eternal disgrace to
England, and the world will see that Whigs are no better than Tories.”

Let no one think the writer uncharitable in these suppositions.  The
writer is only too well acquainted with the antecedents of the
individual, to entertain much doubt that he would shrink from any such
conduct, provided he thought that his temporal interest would be
forwarded by it.  The writer is aware of more than one instance in which
he has passed off the literature of friendless young men for his own,
after making them a slight pecuniary compensation and deforming what was
originally excellent by interpolations of his own.  This was his especial
practice with regard to translation, of which he would fain be esteemed
the king.  This Radical _literato_ is slightly acquainted with four or
five of the easier dialects of Europe, on the strength of which knowledge
he would fain pass for a universal linguist, publishing translations of
pieces originally written in various difficult languages; which
translations, however, were either made by himself from literal
renderings done for him into French or German, or had been made from the
originals into English, by friendless young men, and then deformed by his
alterations.

Well, the Radical got the appointment, and the writer certainly did not
grudge it him.  He, of course, was aware that his friend had behaved in a
very base manner towards him, but he bore him no ill-will, and invariably
when he heard him spoken against, which was frequently the case, took his
part when no other person would; indeed, he could well afford to bear him
no ill-will.  He had never sought for the appointment, nor wished for it,
nor, indeed, ever believed himself to be qualified for it.  He was
conscious, it is true, that he was not altogether unacquainted with the
language and literature of the country with which the appointment was
connected.  He was likewise aware that he was not altogether deficient in
courage and in propriety of behaviour.  He knew that his appearance was
not particularly against him, his face not being like that of a convicted
pickpocket, nor his gait resembling that of a fox who has lost his tail;
yet he never believed himself adapted for the appointment, being aware
that he had no aptitude for the doing of dirty work, if called to do it,
nor pliancy which would enable him to submit to scurvy treatment, whether
he did dirty work or not—requisites, at the time of which he is speaking,
indispensable in every British official; requisites, by-the-bye, which
his friend, the Radical, possessed in a high degree; but though he bore
no ill-will towards his friend, his friend bore anything but good-will
towards him; for from the moment that he had obtained the appointment for
himself, his mind was filled with the most bitter malignity against the
writer, and naturally enough; for no one ever yet behaved in a base
manner towards another, without forthwith conceiving a mortal hatred
against him.  You wrong another, know yourself to have acted basely, and
are enraged, not against yourself—for no one hates himself—but against
the innocent cause of your baseness; reasoning very plausibly, “But for
that fellow, I should never have been base; for had he not existed, I
could not have been so, at any rate against him”; and this hatred is all
the more bitter, when you reflect that you have been needlessly base.

Whilst the Tories are in power the writer’s friend, of his own accord,
raves against the Tories because they do not give the writer a certain
appointment, and makes, or says he makes, desperate exertions to make
them do so; but no sooner are the Tories out, with whom he has no
influence, and the Whigs in, with whom he, or rather his party, has
influence, than he gets the place for himself, though, according to his
own expressed opinion—an opinion with which the writer does not, and
never did, concur—the writer was the only person competent to hold it.
Now had he, without saying a word to the writer, or about the writer with
respect to the employment, got the place for himself when he had an
opportunity, knowing, as he very well knew, himself to be utterly
unqualified for it, the transaction, though a piece of jobbery, would not
have merited the title of a base transaction; as the matter stands,
however, who can avoid calling the whole affair not only a piece of—come,
come, out with the word—scoundrelism on the part of the writer’s friend,
but a most curious piece of uncalled-for scoundrelism? and who, with any
knowledge of fallen human nature, can wonder at the writer’s friend
entertaining towards him a considerable portion of gall and malignity?

This feeling on the part of the writer’s friend was wonderfully increased
by the appearance of _Lavengro_, many passages of which the Radical in
his foreign appointment applied to himself and family—one or two of his
children having gone over to Popery, the rest become members of Mr.
Platitude’s chapel, and the minds of all being filled with ultra notions
of gentility.

The writer, hearing that his old friend had returned to England, to
apply, he believes, for an increase of salary, and for a title, called
upon him, unwillingly, it is true, for he had no wish to see a person for
whom, though he bore him no ill-will, he could not avoid feeling a
considerable portion of contempt; the truth is, that his sole object in
calling was to endeavour to get back a piece of literary property which
his friend had obtained from him many years previously, and which, though
he had frequently applied for it, he never could get back.  Well, the
writer called; he did not get his property, which, indeed, he had
scarcely time to press for, being almost instantly attacked by his good
friend and his wife—yes, it was then that the author was set upon by an
old Radical and his wife—the wife, who looked the very image of shame and
malignity, did not say much, it is true, but encouraged her husband in
all he said.  Both of their own accord introduced the subject of
_Lavengro_.  The Radical called the writer a grumbler, just as if there
had ever been a greater grumbler than himself until, by the means above
described, he had obtained a place; he said that the book contained a
melancholy view of human nature—just as if anybody could look in his face
without having a melancholy view of human nature.  On the writer quietly
observing that the book contained an exposition of his principles, the
pseudo-Radical replied, that he cared nothing for his principles—which
was probably true, it not being likely that he would care for another
person’s principles after having shown so thorough a disregard for his
own.  The writer said that the book, of course, would give offence to
humbugs; the Radical then demanded whether he thought him a humbug—the
wretched wife was the Radical’s protection, even as he knew she would be;
it was on her account that the writer did not kick his good friend; as it
was, he looked at him in the face and thought to himself, “How is it
possible I should think you a humbug, when only last night I was taking
your part in a company in which everybody called you a humbug?”

The Radical, probably observing something in the writer’s eye which he
did not like, became all on a sudden abjectly submissive, and, professing
the highest admiration for the writer, begged him to visit him in his
government; this the writer promised faithfully to do, and he takes the
present opportunity of performing his promise.

This is one of the pseudo-Radical calumniators of _Lavengro_ and its
author; were the writer on his death-bed he would lay his hand on his
heart and say, that he does not believe that there is one trait of
exaggeration in the portrait which he has drawn.  This is one of the
pseudo-Radical calumniators of _Lavengro_ and its author; and this is one
of the genus, who, after having railed against jobbery for perhaps a
quarter of a century, at present batten on large official salaries which
they do not earn.  England is a great country, and her interests require
that she should have many a well-paid official both at home and abroad;
but will England long continue a great country if the care of her
interests, both at home and abroad, is in many instances intrusted to
beings like him described above, whose only recommendation for an
official appointment was that he was deeply versed in the secrets of his
party and of the Whigs?

Before he concludes, the writer will take the liberty of saying of
_Lavengro_ that it is a book written for the express purpose of
inculcating virtue, love of country, learning, manly pursuits, and
genuine religion, for example, that of the Church of England, and for
awakening a contempt for nonsense of every kind, and a hatred for
priestcraft, more especially that of Rome.

And in conclusion, with respect to many passages of his book in which he
has expressed himself in terms neither measured nor mealy, he will beg
leave to observe, in the words of a great poet, who lived a profligate
life, it is true, but who died a sincere penitent—thanks, after God, to
good Bishop Burnet—

    “All this with indignation I have hurl’d
    At the pretending part of this proud world,
    Who, swollen with selfish vanity, devise
    False freedoms, formal cheats, and holy lies,
    Over their fellow fools to tyrannise.”

                                                               —ROCHESTER.

                                * * * * *

                                 THE END.

                                * * * * *




NOTES TO _THE ROMANY RYE_,
WITH
CORRECTIONS, IDENTIFICATIONS AND TRANSLATIONS.


Page 5.  The man in black: The Rev. Fraser.  See pp. 24–25, and
“Arbuthnot” in _Bibliog._—Barbarini, read Barberini: Urban VIII., pope
1623–44.—6.  Nipotismo di Roma: See “Leti” in _Bibliog._—Ganganelli:
Clement XIV., pope, 1769–74.—10.  Mezzofanti: So here and elsewhere in
_Romany Rye_; Mezzofante in _Lavengro_—Cardinal Giuseppe, 1774–1849, the
celebrated linguist.—Leon the Isaurian: Reigned at Constantinople from
717–741.—11.  Ignacio: Spanish form of Ignatius.—14.  Omani batsikhom:
Manchu Tartar form of prayer given elsewhere by Borrow as
_Oum-ma-ni-bat-mi-houm_.  See _Life_, i., p. 176.—15.  Bellissima
Biondina (It.): Fairest of blondes.—16.  Sono un Prete, etc. (It): I am a
Roman Catholic Priest.—19.  Zamarra (Sp.): A sheep-skin jacket with the
wool outside.—Carajo: An oath fit neither to be written nor pronounced,
but common to the lower classes of Spaniards, or to ambitious foreign
Hispanophiles who cannot know its meaning.  See Oudin’s _Tesoro_, Paris,
1607.—20.  Scotch blood: He was, then, a Fraser of Lovat, of whom Simon
Lord F. was a supporter of the last Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart,
1746.—Puta (Sp.): The most offensive word for harlot.—Alcoran des
Cordeliers, _i.e._, “the Franciscans’ Coran”: A blasphemous work written
in 1399 in Latin by Bartolommeo Albizzi (Albitius); first published in
printed form at Milan in 1510, then by Luther in 1542 with his peculiar
comments, and finally in French at Geneva, 1556.  See “Albizzi” in the
_Bibliog._—22.  Bible: The price of the old apple-woman’s Bible was, it
will be remembered, one half-crown (_Lavengro_, p. 264).—23.  Alexander
VI.: Pope 1492–1503.  He was a Spaniard of Valencia, and his family name
was Rodrigo Borja, in It. Borgia.—24.  L’opere sue, etc.: His deeds were
not those of lions, but of foxes—a slight alteration of Dante’s _L’opere
mie_, etc.  See _L’inf._, xxvii., st. 25.—25.  Oimè (It.): Alas!—To . . .,
read Rome.—Sir John D., read Sir _Thomas_ Dereham: A follower of the
Stuarts; he died in 1739, and his monument stands in the English College
at Rome.—There is at . . ., read Rome.—Yes, per Dio (It.): By Heaven!

Page 25.  Parsons and Garnet: Two English Jesuits—Robert Parsons
(1547–1610), superior to the Catholic Missions in England, and Henry
Garnet (1555–1606), hanged because he refused to reveal the secrets of
the confessional in connection with the Gunpowder Plot.—No hay remedio
(Sp.): There is no help for it.—26.  Inserted it: In vol. iv., p.
330.—32.  Calañés: A Spanish hat worn by the lower classes, having the
rim turned up against the crown.—There’s a chovahanee, etc.: The full
ditty runs thus in one of Borrow’s _MSS._:—



“THE PETULENGRES.


    “There’s a chovahanee and a chovahanó,
    The nav se lendè Petulengro;
    Sore the chavès ’dré their ten
    Are chories and labbenies—tatchipen,”

which reading corrects that of the text.—34.  Flaming Bosville: Anselo
Herne.  See p. 67, and note to _Lavengro_, p. 363.—37.  Gentleman Cooper
and White-headed Bob: i.e., George Cooper and Ned Baldwin, who fought on
the 5th of July, 1825, according to Pearce Egan’s _Boxiana_, v., pp. 61
and 80.  Observe that the date harmonises perfectly with the chronology
of the expedition.—38.  Brynhilda the Valkyrie, or Amazon, was the wife
of Gunnar and friend of Sigurd.  See the Edda in _Bibliog._  Sigurd,
called Fafnisbane or the Slayer of Fafnir, was a heroic character
frequently mentioned in the Edda, the Wilkina Saga, Snorro’s
Heimskringla, and Saxo-Grammaticus.  In the Wilkina he is Sigurdr Sveinn,
in the old Danish Heroic Ballads (Kiæmpeviser) he is Sigurd Snaresvend
(Borrow’s “Snareswayne”), and Siegfrid in the Lay of the Nibelungs.
Sivard or Sivord is a German variety of the same name.

Page 40.  Feasting: This rustic banquet was offered to Sylvester and
Ursula who were married that day, although our “rye” was not aware of the
fact till later.  The song was _built up_ by our author from a very
slender prose draft, which I find in its earliest form given thus:—



1.  “DRABBING THE BAULO,


    “We jaws to the drab-engro and lels dui or trin hors-worth of drab,
    and when we wels to the sweti we pens we can have a drab at a baulo.
    Then we kairs it opré, and jaws to a farm-ker to mang a bit of
    habben, and then we pens: ‘Chuva lis acai and dov-odoy baulo will lel
    it, and to-morrow sorlu we’ll wel apopli and mang it’.  And so we
    kairs, and on the sorlu when we’ve got it, we toves it well; we kins
    levinor at the kitchema, and have a kosko habben.  The boshom-engro
    plays (_kils_), and the tawni juva gils, a kosko puro Rommany
    guillie.”  Then follows the _gillie_ nearly as in the text.



2.  “DRABBING THE BAULO.


    “To mande shoon ye Rommany Chals
    Who besh in the pus about the yag
    I’ll pen how we drab the baulo.

    “We jaws to the drab-engro ker
    Trin horsworth there of drab we lels
    And when to the swety back we wels
    We pens we’ll drab the baulo.

    “And then we kairs the drab opré,
    And then we jaws to the farming ker
    To mang a beti habben,
    A beti poggado habben.

    “A rinkeno baulo there we dick,
    And then we pens in Rommany jib:
    ‘Chiv lis odoy oprey the chick,
    The baulo he will lel lis,
    The baulo he will lel lis.

    “‘Apopli on the sorlo we
    Will wel and mang him mullo,
    Will wel and mang his truppo.’

    “And so we kairs, and so we kairs,
    We mang him on the sorlo,
    And rig to the tan the baulo.

    “And then we toves his wendror well
    Till sore the wendror iuziou sie,
    Till kekkeno drab’s adrey lis,
    Till drab there’s kek adrey lis.

    “And then his truppo well we hatch,
    Kin levinor at the kitchema,
    And have a kosko habben,
    A kosko Rommano habben.

    “The boshom-engro kils, he kils,
    The tawni juva gils, she gils,
    A puro Rommany gillie,
    Now shoon the Rommany gillie.”

3.  The third and last _MS._ is complete, but varies considerably from
the printed text.  _Romany_ is written with two _m_’s, as in _Lavengro_
throughout; in the fourth verse it reads: “In Rommany _chib_:_ chiv_ lis
_odoy_ opré _the chik_”; fourth line omits “_and_”; in the fifth and
sixth verses it gives “_sorlo_” properly, instead of “saulo”; in seventh
verse it reads “_his_ wendror,” and in the last, “_boshom-engro_” and
“_tawni_”.

From all these variants it results that _MS._ No. 3 furnishes a better
reading than the printed text.

Page 42.  Ursula’s Song: By the aid of the Gypsy list at the end of this
volume, the translation can be easily made out by the curious reader.—46.
Piramus: In _MS._ also _Priamus_.—Sanpriel: Corrupt form of _Sanspareil_,
unrivalled.—Synfye: Slavonic form of _Cynthia_—_th_ in Russian is
pronounced _ph_ or _f_; Thomas, _Fómas_.—47.  Life of Charles: Add
_XIIth_.—48.  The church: Mentioned as three miles from the dingle, and
on pp. 53, 110, as at _M._, has not yet been discovered.—58.  The Edda:
Early Icelandic literary monuments, consisting of the Elder or Poetic
Edda collected by Sæmund, and the later or Prose Edda collected by Snorro
Sturleson.  See Mallet’s _Northern Antiquities_, Bohn’s Edition.—Sagas:
Early historical tales handed down by oral tradition.  See _Bibliog._—67.
Anselo Herne: His clan-name.  See note to p. 363 of _Lavengro_.  68.
Pulci: Luigi Pulci (1432–87).  See _Bibliog._—69.  Ingravidata (It.):
With child.—E nacquene, etc.: “And of her a son was born, says story, who
subsequently gave great victory to Charlemagne”.—71.  Fortiguerra:
Niccolò Fortiguerra (1674–1735).  He did not live to print his voluminous
poem entitled _Ricciardetto_, having died in 1735, just “ninety years”
from the date 1825, as our text declares.—76.  Slammocks, etc.: Norwich
worthies, I suppose; at least I do not find them in the _Boxiana_ at my
command.—89.  The Armenian in this (xivth) chapter I find correct.
Hramahyel should have been given _hramaïyel_, hntal, etc., _khntal_
(χντάλ), and madagh, _madag_.  See “Villotte” in the _Bibliog._—91.
Hard-mouthed jade: This favourite expression of Mr. Borrow’s proceeds, I
opine, from his readings in the quaint eighteenth century literature with
which his library abounded.  In Defoe’s _Moll Flanders_, p. 301, edition
of 1722, we read: “The witnesses were the two wenches, a couple of _hard
mouth’d jades_ indeed”.  And on p. 323: “A _hard mouth’d man_”.—93.
Brynhilda: See note to p. 38.—133–34.  The “daffodil” poet: William
Wordsworth (1770–1850).—141.  Carlo Borromeo: The Cardinal saint, born
1538, died 1584.—143.  Bricconi abbasso (It.): “Down with the rogues!”

Page 157.  Friar Bacon: The celebrated scientist Roger Bacon (1214–94)
was fated, like Virgil, to be popularly metamorphosed into a magician and
conjuror.  Hence the “Friar Bacon” series of chap-books, extending (so
far as we know them) from the sixteenth century to the present.  I will
give the passage referred to by Mr. Borrow, so that it may be seen that
the myth had no reference to the railway.  No. 3 in _Bibliog._, leaf 8:—

    “Chapter V.  How Miles watched the Brazen-head, and in the end went
    away from his master.

    “Fryer Bacon, having performed many wonderful things by his curious
    Art, was now sifting out _how he might wall England with brass_;
    wherefore he and Fryer Bungy, when they had raised the devil, bound
    him to a tree, for to make him tell them how it might be performed.
    He told them that they should make a _Brazen-head_, which (if they
    could watch it till it spoke) would tell them how it might be done.
    The head was made, and they watched till they could watch no longer.
    At last Fryer Bungey persuaded Fryer Bacon to let his man Miles watch
    while they slept; to which the Fryer agreed.  Then Miles was called,
    who undertook to awake them when the Head would speak.  So to sleep
    they went, and Miles expected some great speech to come from the
    Head.  At last the Head cryed, ‘_TIME IS_’; at which Miles fell into
    a great laughter, and made his scoffs and jears thereat.  Then it
    said, ‘_TIME WAS_’; but yet he would not awake his master, counting
    them but silly and frivolous words.  Lastly, the Head said, ‘_TIME IS
    PAST_’; at which words down it fell, and in falling made such a noise
    that it awakened the two Fryers, and had almost affrighted poor Miles
    out of his senses,” etc.

Page 158.  L . . ., read Liverpool; C . . ., read Chester.—162.  Brooke
of Borneo: Sir James Brooke, Rajah of Sarawak (1803–68), George Borrow’s
school-mate at Norwich in 1816–17–18.—165.  “Vails”: He means, of course,
_vale_.—175–6–7.  Romanvile: London.  See “English Rogue” in _Bibl._—176.
The chi she is kaulo (read _kauley_), etc.: “The lass she is black, she
sleeps upon her back”.—177–78.  Sivord: Or Sivard, the same as Sigurd,
called the Snaresvend (“Snareswayne” on the next page).  See note to p.
38, and _Romantic Ballads_, 1826, pp. 83 and 90.  For the reason of
Borrow’s changing the Danish _svend_ into “swayne,” see _Life_, ii., p.
269.—The horse Grayman: _i.e._, the “Skimming gray” of p. 96, _Romantic
Ballads_.—183.  The Maugrabin sorcerer: The “African Magician” in Lane’s
translation.  There is in this passage of _The Romany Rye_ evidently a
confusion of two of the tales in the _Arabian Nights_—those of Aladdin
and Sindbad, fifth voyage.—221.  Isten (pron. _íshten_): Hung. for
God.—222.  Magyar (pron. _mädjr_): A Hungarian.—223.  Tékéli
(1658–1705).—L’Eau de la Reine d’Hongrie, read _de Hongrie_, _h_ being
aspirate in this word.—Pigault Lebrun (Charles), 1753–1835; _Les Barons
de Felsheim_, Paris, 1822.—Ersebet, read _Erszebet_,
Elisabeth.—Florentius of Buda: Flourished 1790–1805.  See “Budai Ferencz”
in the _Bibliog._—224.  Álmus, or Álmos (_älmosh_), died 889.  The
Hungarian scholar Vámbéri, has exploded the “dream” (or rather “sleep”)
theory heretofore entertained with regard to the origin of the name
Almos; he says it is an epithet, meaning the Great, the Sublime, the
Noble, the Glorious (_Ursprung_, pp. 62, 156).—225 (228 and elsewhere),
Dunau, read _Donau_, Germ. for Danube.—Király and Ház: The former comes
from the Servian _Králj_ (_lj_ like Span. _ll_ or Port. _lh_), which the
Hungarian lengthened into _kir-ály_, not finding it convenient to
pronounce _kr_. {383}  As for _haz_, from _haus_ (Austrian pop.
pronunciation _hôs_), we are told by Vámbéri that the ancient form was
not _ház_, but _hos_ (_Ursp._, p. 556).—226.  Janos (pron. _Yánosh_):
John.—226.  Szava (Hung.): The Save.—229.  Laszlo: Ladislaus.—Cilejia:
The Roman _Claudia Celleia_, now Cilly, in Carinthia.—230.  Matyas: In
English Matthias.—Huz, read _husz_ (Hung.): Twenty.  Vámbéri questions
this etymology of “hussar” (p. 283), but unsatisfactorily, we
think.—Ulazslo: Wladislaus.—Tché Drak: The Roumanian _cé dracŭ_, but
pronounced as in the text, and equivalent to the exclamation _que
diable_!—Mohacs Veszedelem, read Mohacsi Veszedelem: The Disaster of
Mohács, the title of a poem by Baron Liszti.—231.  Bátory: A mere
epithet, the “valiant”.—232.  Lajos (_laï-osh_), Louis or Lewis.—Mufti:
The ulémas or Doctors of the (Mahomedan) law.—233.  Coloscvar, read
Koloszvár, in German, Klausenburg.—Budáï Ferencz: See _Bibliog._—235.
Rysckie Tsar, read _Russki Tsar_: The Russian Emperor.—Plescova, now
Pskov.—Iván Basilowitz, read _Vasiliévitch_, known as Iván the
Terrible.—236.  Izbushka (Russ.): Hut—Tyzza, read _Tisza_: The river
Theiss.—Kopacs Teto, read _Kopász Tetö_.—Kassau, read _Kaschau_.—239.
Eljen edes, etc. (pron. _elyen edesh tsigáñ oor_, _elyen gool eraï_):
“Long live the sweet Gypsy gentleman, long live the gudlo Rye”.—241.
Roth-Welsch: The German for Thieves’ Slang.—Tzernebock, read _Tchernobog_
(_g_ like Germ. _ch_): Black god, evil principle.—Bielebock, read
_Bielbog_: White god, the good principle.—242.  Saxo-Gramaticus, read
_Grammaticus_, see _Bibliog._—Fekete (Hung.): Black.—246.  Erik Bloodaxe
(Danish _Blodöxe_): King of Norway, Snorro, 1633, p. 64.—256.  Regner
Lodbrok: “Regnar” in Icelandic; Borrow gives the Danish term of this
king’s name.  See his famous _Death Song_ in Mallet, pp.
383–85.—Halgerdr, read Halgerda, Mallet, pp. 340–41.—257.  Biorn, read
_Björn_ and Ivarr, _Ivar_.—258.  Verdammt (Germ.): Confounded.

Page 262.  “Wife selling”: A very common practice among a certain class,
it seems, in England; and, as this will hardly be credited in America, I
will append some extracts from the newspapers.  The _Norfolk Chronicle_
of 5th May, 1894, says: “The belief formerly prevailed, especially among
the rural population, that a man had a perfectly legal right to sell his
wife to another, provided he observed two indispensable formalities.  One
was that he placed a _halter_ about her neck, and the other that he led
her into the market and publicly transferred her to the purchaser.
Numerous instances of these strange transactions have been recorded.  Our
columns, on the 9th of February, 1805, contained an account of the sale
of a wife at Norwich.  A Kentish tailor, the affections and person of
whose amiable spouse had been jockeyed away by a neighbouring
horse-dealer, caparisoned her neck with a halter and surrendered all
right and title to his virtuous rib, in consideration of the sum of £5.
On the 2nd of May, 1823, a similar sale was effected in this city.  A man
named Stebbings disposed of his wile to a person named Turner for the sum
of £6 10s.  The latter paid £4 on account, took the woman home, and
brutally turned his lawful wife out of doors.”

The London _Daily Mail_ of 1st March, 1899, prints the following:—

“Very few people are aware that wives are literally sold to-day in
England.  A very common error of the vulgar is that a man by selling his
wife releases himself from the marriage contract as surely as if he were
legally divorced.  In March, 1796, _The Times_ announced the sale of a
wife at Sheffield for sixpence.  A short time afterwards the same journal
calmly stated that the price of wives has risen in Smithfield Market from
half a guinea to three guineas and a half!  In 1803 a man led his wife,
by a halter round her neck, into the cattle market at Sheffield, and sold
her for a guinea, the purchaser leading away the woman to his home.  In
1820 a man named Brouchet hired a cattle-pen in the Canterbury market,
placed his wife in it, and ultimately sold her for 5s.  Then wives began
to increase in value, for soon afterwards one was sold for £15.  This was
followed by a ‘slump’.  In 1855 a man led his wife with a halter round
her waist into Derby marketplace and offered her for sale, but all be
could get for her was eighteen pence and a quart of ale.  In 1873 a
husband left his home and creditors in Belper for the liberty of America.
The week after his flight all his goods were put up for auction to
satisfy his debts.  His wife claimed part of the money, and this being
refused she insisted on being offered for sale as part of her husband’s
assets.  There was no sale, however, for ‘Lot 29’.  In even more recent
days wife sales were common, and are even being effected in this present
year of grace.  In 1882 John Wilson, a collier of Alfreton, Derbyshire,
sold his wife in a public-house for fourpence.  Sheffield knife-grinders
have long been noted for their transactions in the wife trade.  Within
quite recent times many a Sheffield wife has been sold by her husband for
a gallon of beer, which has been drunk on the spot.  Sometimes these
sales assume a more formal aspect.  In 1887, in the Sheffield County
Court, a man admitted that he had bought another man’s wife for 5s.  Most
of these discreditable ‘deals’ escape notice, but a case has come to
light where a man agreed to sell his wife to a collier, and the trio,
with the woman’s father and mother and two family friends, assembled to
arrange terms.  Thirty shillings was the price finally agreed on.  Four
years ago, at Leeds, a man charged with bigamy pleaded that, as he had
sold his wife for 3s. 6d. to another man, he could marry again legally!
Eighteen months’ imprisonment was what he got, and more than deserved.  A
police court case in 1896 at Doncaster revealed the fact that John Tart
sold his wife to Enoch Childs, on the understanding that the latter
reared the vendor’s four children.  In a Durham court in 1894 it
transpired that a man named Shaw sold his daughter, a girl of sixteen, to
a collier called Cudman, for 1s.  Many a wife is at present sold in the
East End of London, as well as in Yorkshire, for a quart of beer or an
ounce of thick twist.  It is the poor man’s method of divorce, and such
is popular ignorance that there are scores of people who imagine that
selling a wife is as legal a separation as a _decree nisi_ pronounced by
a bewigged and berobed judge.”

Page 265.  Herodotus: The story is found in _Thalia III._, 84–88 (pp.
208–9 of Cary’s Eng. translation).  The groom’s name was _Œbares_.—266.
Deaghblasda, read _deaghbhlasda_ (Ir.): Sweet-tasted, dainty.  This is
the soothing word hinted at, but not given, in _Lavengro_, p. 83.—269.
At H . . ., read _Hertford_, where John Thurtell was hanged, 9th January,
1824.—Ned Flatnose: Ed. Painter of Norwich.—270.  Spring: His true name
was Thomas _Winter_; see _Lavengro_, p. 168.  He died 20th August,
1851.—276. . . .  Fair, read Greenwich Fair, on Easter Monday.  See
Dickens’ _Sketches_.—279.  Oilien (and p. 295, Oilein) nan Naomha, read
_Oilean na Naomhtha_ (Ir.): Island of the Saints (Patrick and
Columba).—Finn-ma-Coul: The tale of Finn was first learned by Borrow in
January, 1854, from his Irish guide Cronan, while travelling in Cornwall
(_Life_, ii., p. 86, and note).  This fact shows that Murtagh and his
tale are introduced here to exhibit the author’s discovery of the
identity between the Finn of Ireland and the Eddaic tradition of Sigurd
Fafnisbane (p. 281).  For Sigurd in the Wilkina Saga is suckled by a hind
(p. 120) and fostered by Mymmer Smed or Mimer the Smith (p. 121) whom he
eventually slays (p. 124).  In the Eddaic Lay of the serpent-killer we
read: “Sigurd took the heart of Fafnir and broiled it on a spit.  And
when he judged that it was done, he touched it with his finger to
ascertain if that were really the case.  Having burned his finger in the
act, he put it to his mouth, and no sooner had the heart’s blood of
Fafnir come in contact with Sigurd’s tongue than he understood the speech
of birds,” etc.  Here we have the two sides verified, the Irish by
Cronan, and the Scandian by the Edda.  But Brooke’s _Reliques_, a
favourite work of Borrow’s in his Norwich days, and which he cites in
1832 (_Life_, i., p. 146), give us certain other fragments of these
Finnic fables, whereby we can trace the sources of the text before us.
For example, after Jack Dale had stripped Murtagh of all his money he is
observed to be sitting “in deep despondency, holding his thumb to his
mouth” (p. 278).  And a little farther on (p. 282) a verse is cited from
“Conan the Bald”.  Now all this is found in Miss Brooke, that is, the
names and the ideas—Conan the Bald (p. 106), Lochlin (p. 46), and Darmod
Odeen (minus Taffy) and the verse with this note (p. 109):—“This strange
passage is explained by some lines in the Poem of Dubmac-Dighruibh, where
Finn is reproached with deriving all his courage from _chewing his thumb_
for prophetic information.”—281.  Siol Loughlin, read _Lochlin_ (Ir.):
Literally “the seed of Norway,” _i.e._, the Danish or Norwegian race.
Miss Brooke very properly says (p. 46): “Lochlin is the Gælic (and Irish)
name for Scandinavia in general”; but Borrow limits it to Denmark—the
Danish race.  And a little below, “the Loughlin songs” are his _Danish
Ballads_ which he published the following year.

Page 283.  The story of Murtagh at the Irish College in Rome, and his
subsequent wanderings in the South of France and in Spain, mask, as we
have said elsewhere, the peregrinations of George Borrow in 1826–27.—286.
M’anam on Dioul: Explained in _Lavengro_, note to p. 65.—291.  Dungarvon
times of old: See _Life_, i., p. 46, and ii., pp. 16–17.  Cradock’s
letter was dated, 18th August, 1849, and Mr. B.’s answer (i., p. 146) a
little after.—Raparees: Irish marauders, _temp._ James II.  See _Life_,
i., p. 146, and Brooke’s _Reliques_, p. 205.  The latter says that the
word is from the Irish _Réubóir Ri_, plunderer, robber, freebooter of the
king, from _reubaim_, I tear.—292.  Chiviter Vik: Cività Vecchia, the
modern seaport of Rome, fifty miles distant.—Army of the Faith: Spanish
frontier corps of observation under Gen. Don Vicente Quesada,
1823–24.—Prince Hilt: The Duke d’Angoulême, nephew of Louis XVIII., and
son of the Count d’Artois (afterwards Charles X.).  D’Angoulême invaded
Spain in 1823 with 100,000 Frenchmen, to restore Ferdinand VII. to his
absolute throne, against the Liberals of 1820–23.—298.  To . . ., read
Rome.—At . . ., read Rome.—Educated at . . ., read Rome.—300.  Direction
of the east, read _south_.  He could only have gone south from Horncastle
to reach _Boston_ (the “large town on the arm of the sea”) that day.  The
next he came to Spalding, some fifteen miles farther, where he met the
recruiting serjeant, thence on to Norwich by Lynn Regis.

We must not forget that before _Lavengro_ was begun, and fifteen years
prior to the publication of _The Romany Rye_, that is, 26th December,
1842, Mr. Petulengro remarked to George Borrow at Oulton: “I suppose you
have not forgot how, fifteen [seventeen] years ago, when you made
horseshoes in the dingle by the side of the great north road, I lent you
fifty guineas to purchase the wonderful trotting cob of the innkeeper
with the green Newmarket coat, which _three days after_ you sold for two
hundred”. {386a}  Now, this is a very remarkable statement, and, taken in
connection with the fact that so little is said about Horncastle in the
book, it seems to me we are justified in proclaiming that Borrow was
never in Horncastle at all.  The interview with the Magyar and the
syllabus of Hungarian history are clearly drawn from his experiences in
Hungary and Transylvania in the year 1844, and hence are an anachronism
here.  It is a pity that the author did not adhere to the chronological
facts of his life so strictly in _The Romany Rye_ as he did in
_Lavengro_.  Truth and literature would have gained by it.  And then that
valedictory pledge, {386b} confirmed in the appendix, drawing a veil over
the period of his travails, if not his travels, was an error of judgment
which, in an autobiography will, we fear, not easily be condoned.



APPENDIX.


Page 302.  Age of nineteen, read _twenty_; he was twenty-one less four
months at his father’s death.—303.  Children of Roma: Borrovian for
Gypsies.—305–6.  Balm in Mary Flanders: See _Lavengro_, note to p.
423.—311.  Canning: Premier from 24th April to his death, 8th August,
1827; succeeded by Viscount Goderich from September, 1827, to 25th
January, 1828.—312.  Vaya! qué demonio es este! (Sp.): Bless me! what
demon have we here!—314.  Sessions of Hariri: Arabic tales in prose
interlarded with verse.  The two languages: Chinese and Manchu.—315–6.
Luigi Pulci: Io vo’ tagliar, etc.: I’ll sever the hands of them all and
bring them to those holy monks.  Tu sarai or perfetto, etc.: Now thou
wilt be as true a friend to Christ as aforetime thou wert his foe (_M.
M._, canto I, sts. 53 and 57).—318.  Oberon: A poem by Wieland
(1733–1813).—319.  The father of Anglo-Germanism: Taylor of
Norwich.—Andrew Borde: (see _Bibliog._).  The text of the Bodleian copy
(1547?) runs as follows—(A 3 verso):—

    “I am an Englysh man, and naked I stand here,
    Musyng in my mynd what rayment I shall were;
    For now I wyll were thys, and now I wyl were that,
    Now I wvl were I cannot tel what.
    All new fashyons be plesaunt to me,
    I wyll haue them, whether I thryue or thee;
    Now I am a frysker, all men doth on me looke,
    What should I do but set cocke on the hoope;
    What do I care yf all the worlde me fayle,
    I wyl get a garment shal reche to my tayle;
    Than I am a minion, for I were the new gyse;
    The yere after this I trust to be wyse,
    Not only in wering my gorgious aray,
    For I wyl go to learnyng a hoole somers day;
    I wyll learne Latyne, Hebrew, Grecke and Frenche,
    And I wyl learne Douche sittyng on my benche;
    I do feare no man, all men fearyth me,
    I ouercome my aduersaries by land and by see;
    I had no peere yf to my selfe I were trew,
    Because I am not so diuers times I do rew;
    Yet I lake nothing, I haue all thyng at wyll
    If were wyse and wold holde my selfe styll,
    And medel wyth no matters not to me partayning;
    But I haue suche matters rolling in my pate,
    That I wyl speake and do I cannot tell what.” etc.

—321.  Mr. Flamson: Samuel Morton Peto, M.P., later Sir Morton Peto of
Somerleyton Hall, some five miles inland from Lowestoft.  See _Life_,
ii., p. 52.—327.  Orcadian poet: “Ragnvald, Earl of the Orkney Islands,
passed for a very able poet; he boasts himself, in a song of his which is
still extant, that he knew how to compose verses on all subjects,”
Mallet, p. 235.  The original _Runic_ of the lines translated by Borrow
is found in Olaus Wormius.  Transliterated into Latin letters they read
thus:—

    _Tafl em eg or at efta_
    _Idrottir kan eg niu_
    _Tum eg tradla Runur_
    _Tid er mer bog og smider_
    _Skrid kann eg a gidum_
    _Skot eg og re so nyter_
    _Hvor tweggia kan ek hyggiu_
    _Harpslatt og bragdattu_.

—329.  Lieut. P. . ., read Perry.  The item was taken from a newspaper
(which, I know not) published in September, 1854.  Mr. Borrow read it at
Llangollen in Wales.  I loaned the clipping and it was not returned.—330.
Balaklava: The usual etymon of this famous name is the Italian _Bella
chiave_, beautiful key.—331.  Companion of Bligh: This was Thomas
Hayward.—Once: See Bligh’s Narrative (_Bibliog._), p. 55.—336.  “Malditas
sean tus tripas,” etc.: This Borrovian Spanish must be rendered
truthfully or not at all.  The squeamish may excuse the _borracha_: “D—
your g—s; we had enough of the stink of your g—s the day you ran away
from the battle of the Boyne”.—338.  Coronach (Gælic), read _Corránach_:
The funeral wail, a dirge; in Irish, _coránach_.—342.  Abencerages, read
_Abencerrages_: Arab. _ibn-serradj_; son of the saddle.—349–50.
Whiffler: See note to _Lavengro_, p. 225.—352.  Francis Spira: Francesco
Spiera, a lawyer of Cittadella (Venice), accepted the doctrines of the
Reformation in 1548.  Terrified by the menaces of the Church of Rome and
the prospective ruin of his family, he went to Venice and solemnly
abjured the Evangelical faith in the hands of the Legate, Giovan della
Casa (see Dict. de Bayle) who required him to return home and repeat his
abjuration before his fellow-townsmen and the local authorities.  Having
performed this act, he fell into the horrid state of remorse depicted in
the Protestant accounts of the time.  The report was first brought to
Geneva by Pietro Paolo Vergerio, ex-bishop of Pola, who visited Spiera in
his last moments at Padua, whence he himself bent his way to the
Valtelina, as a fugitive from the Roman Church.—Duncan Campbell and
Falconer: See _Bibliog._—John Randall: Here is a confusion of John Rolfe
and John Randolph of Roanoke (1773–1833).  Pocahontas, daughter of the
Indian Chief Powhatan, saved the life of Captain John Smith in Virginia
and married John Rolfe in 1614.  John Randolph of Roanoke _claimed_ to be
descended from Pocahontas, but Rolfe is evidently the one referred to in
the text.  See _Bibliog._ under “Pocahontas”.—354.  Iriarte (1750–96):
Spanish poet and writer of fables.  See _Bibliog._—355.  Autobiographical
character of Lavengro denied: but see _Life_, ii., pp. 3–27 and 211.—357.
Ginnúngagap: The “yawning abyss” of Northern Mythology.  See Mallet, p.
402.—359.  Horinger Bay: See note on _Lavengro_, p. 46.—360.  Harum-beck,
read _harmanbeck_, as in _Lavengro_, p. 158.—Holkham Estate: The seat of
the Cokes of Norfolk and the Earl of Leicester.  See White’s _Norfolk_,
and the C . . . of _Lavengro_, p. 124.—363.  He said in ’32: See _Life_,
i., p. 143.—Son of Norfolk clergyman: Nelson (_nom de noms_!).—364–66.
Thistlewood and Ings: See article in _Celebrated Lives and Trials_, vol.
vi., p. 339.—368.  The old Radical: John Bowring in 1821.—Vol. of
translations: See “Bowring” in _Bibliog._—Red Rhys: Rhys Goch of Snowdon.
See _Wild Wales_, p. 150, and “Gorchestion” in _Bibliog._—369.  The
Doctor of Medicine: Dr. Lewis Evans.  See _Life_, i., p. 74.—370.  S . . .,
read _Southey_.—Literary project (1829–30): See _Life_, i., p.
129.—371.  Astolfo: His journey to the moon mentioned in Pulci, ed. 1546,
Canto xxi., f. cxx. _b_:—

    “_Malagigi tagliava le parole_,
    _Astolfo sopra ’l suo caval rimonta_;
    _Cavalcano a la luna tanto e al sole_
    _Che capitorno al castel di Creonta_”.

—372.  In —, read _China_.—373.  To —, read _China_.—Copy of a work:
Borrow’s edition of the Manchu New Testament, St. Petersburg, 1835, in 8
parts, 4to.—All the dashes mean Canton or China.—Serendib: (Ceylon) put
for China.




COMPLETE LIST OF ENG. GYPSY WORDS SCATTERED THROUGH _LAVENGRO_ AND
_ROMANY RYE_.


              _Common European G. forms are in parenthesis_.

Abri (_avrí_), out, forth.

Adré / Adrey } (_andré_), in, into.

Ambról, a pear.

Andé, in, into.

Angár, charcoal, coal.

Apopli, again, once more.

Ankko (_aveká_), here is.

Ava / Ávali } yes.

Avella (3rd sing. of _aváva_), he comes; _gorgio a._, some one is coming.
[_Avava_, _avesa_, _avela_.]

                                * * * * *

Ballúva (_baló_), pork.

Baló, hog.

Baró, f. _barí_, pl. _baré_, big, great.

Bátu, father.

Baulo, see _baló_.

Bawlor (pl. of _baló_), swine.

Bebee (_bibí_), aunt; (in _G. B._ grandmother, with and without _grand_).

Beng, toad; dragon, devil.

Bengui (Sp. G. _bengue_), _i.q. beng_.

Besh (_beshava_), to sit.

Beti, a little, a _bit_ of.

Bitchadey (_bichavdé_; pl. of _bichavdó_), sent.  With _pawdel_,
transported.

Bokht (_bakht_), fate, luck, fortune.

Boró, see _baró_.

Borodromengro, highwayman.

Boshom (_bashava_, I sing or play), violin, fiddle.

Boshomengro, fiddler.

Bovaló (_barvaló_), rich.

Bute (_but_), much.  _B. dosta_, a good many, plenty of.

                                * * * * *

Cafi (καρφἱ), horse-shoe nail.

Caloró, f, a Spanish Gypsy.  Dim. of _caló_; see _kaló_.

Cambrí (_kamní_), with child.

Camomescro (fr. _kamama_, I love), a Lovell (Gypsy tribe-name).

Cana (_kánna_), when.

Caulor (_collor_, L.L.), pl. shillings.

Chabé, pl. of Chabó.

Chabó (_tchavó_), child, lad; Gypsy.

Chachipen (_tchatchipé_), truth.

Chal (_chabál_ or _chavál_, still existant in Spain), lad; Gypsy.
_Romany ch._, Gypsy; _R. chi_, Gypsy (lass).

Chal (for _jal_, from _java_).  Ch. Devléhi (_ja Devlésa_), go with God,
farewell.

Chavó, _i.q. chabó_.

Chi (_tchái_), girl, lass, child; Gypsy.

Chibándo (Sp. G., see _chive_), tossing; preaching (a sermon).

Chick (_tchik_), dirt, mud.

Chie, _i.q. chi_.

Chiknó (_tiknó_), a youth.  _Tawno Ch._, “Shorty”.

Chinomescro (from _tchinava_, I cut), chisel, parer.

Chipe (_tchip_), tongue.

Chive (_tchivava_), to throw; to pass (false coin).

Chívios, is cast (he).

Chong (_tumba_), hill.  _Ch. gav_, Norwich, town of the Castle hill.

Choomer (_tchumi_), a kiss.

Chore (_tchorava_), to steal.

Chories, thieves.

Chovahanee (_tchovekhaní_), a witch.

Chovahanó (_tchovekhanó_), a wizard.

Churi (_tchorí_), knife.

Coin (_kon_), who?

Coko (_káko_), uncle.

Colikó (_kalikó_, Sp. G. _calicaste_, on the morrow), on the morrow, in
the morning (B.’s “early” is a mistake).

Coor (_curava_, I strike), to strike, to hammer.

Cooromengro, boxer.

Covántza, anvil.

Covar (_ková_), a thing.

Cral / Crállis } (_krális_), king

Cukkerin (merely alliterative with _dukkerin_).

Curomengro, boxer.

Czigány (Hung.), Gypsy—(_tsigáñ_).

                                * * * * *

Dearginni (Hung., _dörŏg_, thunder; _dörgeni_, to th.), it thunders.

Dick (_dikava_), to see.

Dinelo (_deniló_ or _diniló_), a fool.

Divvus (_divés_), day.

Dloovu (error for _lovó_).

Dook (Slavic), spirit, soul, divining spirit, demon, ghost.  Russ. _dux_.

Dook, to spirit away, to bewitch.

Dosta, enough.

Dove odoy (fr. _odová_), that there; up yonder.

Drab, herb, drug; poison, see _drow_.

Drab, to poison.

Drabengro, seller of medicines, apothecary.  _D. ker_, apothecary’s shop.

Drom (δρόμος), road, way.

Drow, _i.q. drab_; often pl. drugs; poison.

Dúi, two.

Duk (B.’s _dook_).

Dukker (fr. _duk_, spirit or demon, and _ker_, to make, to evoke), to
tell any one’s fortune, to tell fortunes.

Dukkerin (the _in_ is Eng. ing), any one’s fortune or fortunes, fate;
fortune-telling.  “To pen” a _dukkerin_ is incorrect.

Dukkerin dook, the fortune-telling or divining spirit.

Dukkeripen, fortune-telling.

Dumo (_dumó_), the back.

Duvel (_devél_), God.

Duvelskoe (_devlesko_), divine.

Dye (_daï_), mother.

                                * * * * *

Engro (a mere adj. ending, _er_, _ing_), Borrovian for “master,”
“fellow,” “chap”.

Erajái (_rashaï_), priest, in Sp. Gyp.

Eray, see _rye_.

                                * * * * *

Farm-engro, farmer.

Fino, Eng. fine.

Fóros (_φόρος_ = _ἀγορά_), city, town.

                                * * * * *

Gav, village, town.

Gil, to sing.

Gillie (_ghili_), song, ditty.

Gitáno, a (Sp.) Gypsy.

Gorgikie, f. of.

Gorgiko, f, non-gypsy.

Gorgio (_gadjó_), non-gypsy, stranger, somebody, policeman.

Gorgious, adj. formed from _gorgio_.

Grandbebee, grandmother.  See _bebee_.

Grasní, mare; jade.

Grondinni (fr. _Roumanian_), it hails.

Gry (_graï_), horse.  _Pellengo g._, stallion.

Gudló, í, sweet; _g. pesham_, honeycomb.

Gul eray (Hung. G.?), sweet gentleman.

                                * * * * *

Habben (_khabé_, fr. _khavava_, I eat), food, victuals; feast.

Harkomescro (_arkíchi_, tin), tinker.

Hatch, to cook (evidently fr. _pekava_, rather than _atchava_).

Hinjirí (f. of _hinjiró_, fr. _djandjir_, a chain), executioner.

Hir mi devlis (or diblis), by G—.

Hokkawar (khokhavava), to lie, to cheat.

Hokkeripen, falsehood, deception.

Hors-worth, pennyworth.  (Hors, fr. _grosch_?)

                                * * * * *

Iuziou (_shuzó_), clean.

                                * * * * *

Jaw (_java_), to go.  See _chal_.

Jawing, going.

Jib (_chib_) tongue, language.

Juggal (_jukél_), dog.

Juva / Juwa } (young) woman.

                                * * * * *

Kair, see _ker_.

Kairdó, see _Kerdó_.

Kaló, f. _kalí_, pl. _kalé_, black, dark.

Kauley, f. of _kaulo_.

Kaulo, see _kaló_.

Kaulomescro, blacksmith.

Ke, to.

Kek, none.

Kekaubi / Kekkauvi } (_kakkávi_), kettle.

Kekauviskoe saster, kettle iron or hook.

Kekkaubi, see _kekaubi_.

Kekkenó, no, not one.

Ker, house.

Ker (_kerava_), to make, to do.

Kerdó, made (he).

Kil (_kelava_), to play.

Kin (_kinava_), to buy.

Kistur (_klisava_), to ride.

Kitchema, tavern, ale-house.

Kosko, i, good.

Kral / Krallis } king, see _cral_.

                                * * * * *

Lachipen, goodness.

Laki / Lakie } (_lake_), her, to her.

Lavengro, “word-master,” “philologist”.

Lel (_lava_, _lesa_, _lela_), to take; to buy.

Len, _i.q. lende_.

Lende, their, to them.

Leste, him.

Levinor (_levina_), ale.

Lil, paper, book.

Lirí, law.

Lis, it.

Lolló (_loló_), red.

Loovu, see

Lovó, coin; pl. _lové_, money.

Lubbeny (_lubní_), harlot.

Lundra, London.

Luripen, theft, robbery.

                                * * * * *

Mailla, donkey.

Man, me.

Mande, to me.

Mang (_mangava_), to beg.

Manriclí (_manrikló_), cake.

Manró, bread.

Manus (_manush_), man.

Marél (error for _merel_): _merava_, _meresa_, _merela_—he dies.

Mek (_mukava_), to leave, to let; _mek lis_, drop it.

Men, we.

Mensar (_mensa_), with us.

Mer (_merava_), to die.

Mi (_me_), I.

Miduveleskoe lil, divine or godly book.

Miró, f, my, mine.

Miry (_mirí_), my.

Morro, bread.

Muchtar (_muktar_), box, tool-box.

Mullo (_muló_), dead.

                                * * * * *

Nashkadó, í (_nashavdó_), lost, ruined; hanged (_G. B._).

Nashky, gallows (_G. B._).

Nav, name.

                                * * * * *

O, the.

Odoi / Odoy } there, here.

Opré, on, upon, up.

                                * * * * *

Pa, over, for.

Pal (_pral_), brother; friend, mate.

Palor (_pralá_), brothers.

Parraco (L.L. _paracrow_; Zinc. parauco), I thank.

Patteran (_patrín_), leaf of a tree, Gypsy trail.

Pawdel (_perdál_), on the other side, across.

Pellengo (_pelengro_, fr. _pelé_, testicles), with _gry_, a stallion.

Pen (_penava_), to say, to tell.

Peshotá, pl. of _peshót_ (_pishót_), bellows.

Petúl (_pétalo_), horse-shoe.

Petulengro, head of the clan “Smith”.

Pindró (_pinró_), foot, hoof.

Pios (fr. _piava_, I drink), health, in toasting.

Piramus, _MS._ Priamus.

Plaistra (_klashta_), pincers, tongs.

Plastramengro, runner, detective.

Poggadó, í (_panghiardó_), broken.

Poknees (_paknís_, a man of trust), magistrate.

Prala, voc. of _pal_ or _pral_, brother.

Pré (_opré_), on, upon.

Pudamengro (fr. _purdava_ or _pudava_, I blow), bellows.

Puró, f. _purí_, pl. _puré_, old, ancient.

Pus, straw.

Puv (or _phuv_) earth, ground.

                                * * * * *

Ran, stick, rod, cane.

Ráni, lady, wife.

Rarde (_ratt_), night.

Rat, rate and rati, blood, race.

Rawnie, see _ráni_.

Rig (?) to carry.

Rikkeno, see _rinkenó_.

Rin, a file.

Rinkenó, í, pretty, fine.

Rom, husband; Gypsy.

Roman, Borrovian tor Gypsy.

Romaneskoenaes, in Gypsy fashion.

Romanies, Gypsies.

Romanly, in Gypsy, Gypsy-like.

Romanó, í, Gypsy.

Romany (Anglicised form _of Romanó_, í), Gypsy.

Romany Chal, Gypsy.

Romany Chi, Gypsy (girl).

Romany Rye, Gypsy gentleman.

Rome and dree (Rom andré?  Gypsy at heart).

Romí, wife.

Rommanis, in Gypsy, also wife (_G. B._).

Rommany, _i.q. Romany_.

Rovél (3rd sing. of _rovava_), he weeps.

Rup, silver.

Rye (_ráï_), gentleman.

                                * * * * *

Sanpriel, Sanspareil.

Sap, snake.

Sapengro, snake-catcher.

Sar shan, how art thou?

Sas, it was, were it.

Saster / Sastra } iron.

Sastramescro, worker in iron, smith.

Saulo (_MS. sorlo_), morning; early (?)

Savó, what kind of a man? who?

Scoppelo, ninny.

Se (_isi_), is, are.

Shan (_isán_), thou art.

Sherengro (fr. _sheró_, the head), head man, chief.

Shom (_isóm_), I am.

Shoon (_shunava_), to hear, to listen.

Shukaro (_tchokanó_), hammer.

Shunella (_shunéla_, 3rd sing. of _shunava_), is listening.

Si (_isí_), is, are; _si men_, are we; _si mensar_ (mensa), is or are
with us.

Sinaba (Sp. G.), was.

Sore (_saré_), pl. all, all who.

Sos, who.

Sos (_isás_), was.

Sove (_sovava_), to sleep.

Swety (pl. of Russ. _sviet_), people, folks.

Synfye, Cinthia (Slav. _th_ is pron. _ph_).

                                * * * * *

Ta, and.

Tachó, í, true.

Tan, place, tent.

Tasaulor (read _ta-sorlo_), to-morrow.

Tatchenó, í, modest, chaste.

Tatchipen, truth.

Tawnie, f. of

Tawnó, í. (_tarnó_), little, short.

Tove (_tovava_), to wash.

Trin, three.

Truppo (_trupo_), body.

Tu, thou.

Tute (tut), thee, to thy.

                                * * * * *

Vagescoe, adj. of _yag_.

Vassavie, f. of.

Vassavó, í, vile.

Villaminni (Hung. _villám_), it lightens.

                                * * * * *

Wafodo, i, bad, raise.

Wel (corrupted from _avella_), to come, to go.

Welling, coming.

Wendror (connected with _andró_, within?), the insides.

Wesh (_vesh_), forest.

Wust, to throw (better the first _MS._ form, _chiv_).

                                * * * * *

Yag, fire.

Ye, the.

Yeck (_yek_), one.

Yov (_ov_), be.

                                * * * * *

Zigeuner (Ger.), Gypsy.

Zingaro (It.), Gypsy.




BIBLIOGRAPHY OF EDITOR’S SOURCES.


Abarbanel, Leo (_Lavengro_, p. 282).—See Note _l. c._

Ab Gwilym (_Lavengro_, p. 114).—Barddoniaeth Dafydd ab Gwilym.  O
grynhoad Owen Jones, a William Owen.  [_The Poetical Works of David ap
Gwilym_ (son of William), _edited by O. J. and W. O._]  Llundain, 1789.
Sm. 8vo, pp. xliii, 548.

—Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym, a
Welsh Bard of the Fourteenth Century.  [By Arthur J. Johnes.]  London,
1834.  12mo, pp. xliv, 127.

Albizzi, Bart. (_Romany Rye_, p. 20).—L’Alcorã des Cordeliers, tant en
Latin qu’en Frãçois: C’est a dire, la mer des blasphemes & mensonges de
cest idole stigmatizé, qu’on appelle S. François, recueilli par le
Docteur M. Luther, du liure des Conformitez de ce beau S. François,
imprimé a Milan l’an M.D.X., & nouuellement traduit.  A Geneve, Par
Conrad Badius.  M.D.LVI (1556).  8vo, pp. 311.—_Bodl._

Aneurin (_Lavengro_, p. 431).—Y Gododin.  A poem on the Battle of
Cattraeth, by Aneurin, a Welsh Bard of the Sixth Century.  With an
English translation by J. Williams ab Ithel.  Llandovery, 1852.  8vo, pp.
x, 204.

Arbuthnot, A. (_Romany Rye_, pp. 24–26).—The Life, Adventures, and many
and great Vicissitudes of Fortune of Simon, Lord Lovat, the Head of the
Family of Frasers.  From his birth at Beaufort, near Inverness, in the
Highlands of Scotland, in 1668, to the time of his being taken by Capt.
Millar, after three days search, in a hollow tree, on the coasts of
Knoidart and Arisaig.  By the Rev. Archibald Arbuthnot, . . .  London,
1746.  12mo, pp. 280+40.—_Bodl._

Bampfylde-Moore-Carew.—An Apology for the Life of Mr.
Bampfylde-Moore-Carew, commonly call’d the King of the Beggars.  Being an
impartial Account of his Life, from his leaving Tiverton School, at the
age of fifteen, and entering into a Society of Gipsies, to the present
time; wherein the motives of his conduct will be explain’d, and the great
number of characters and shapes he has appeared in thro’ Great Britain,
Ireland, and several other places of Europe, be related; with his Travels
twice thro’ great part of America.  A particular account of the Origin,
Government, Language, Laws, and Customs of the Gipsies; their method of
electing their king, etc.  London, 1763.  12mo, pp. xxiv, iv, 348.
Portrait.

With a “Cant” or “Flash” vocabulary at the end, improperly called
“Gipsy”.

Barbarian Cruelty; or an Accurate and Impartial Narrative of the
unparallel’d sufferings and almost incredible hardships of the British
Captives belonging to the _Inspector_, privateer, Capt. Richard Veale,
Commander, during their slavery under the arbitrary and despotic
government of Muley Abdallah, Emperor of Fez and Morocco, January,
1745–46, to their happy ransom and deliverance from their painful
captivity.  London, 1751.  12mo.  Plates.

Bayne, A. D.—A Comprehensive History of Norwich.  Norwich, 1869.  8vo,
pp. xxxviii, 738.

Billy Blind (_Lavengro_, p. 225).—_Not identified_.

Bligh, Capt. (_Romany Rye_, pp. 331, 335).—A Narrative of the Mutiny on
board His Majesty’s Ship _Bounty_; and the subsequent voyage of part of
the crew, in the ship’s boat, from Tofoa, one of the Friendly Islands, to
Timor, a Dutch settlement in the East Indies.  Written by Lieutenant
William Bligh.  London, 1790.  4to, pp. iv, 88.  Four folded charts and
maps.—_Bodl._

—A Description of Pitcairn’s Island and its inhabitants.  With an
authentic account of the Mutiny of the Ship _Bounty_.  New York, 1845.
12mo.

—Pitcairn: the Island, the People, and the Pastor; with a short account
of the Mutiny of the _Bounty_.  By the Rev. T. B. Murray.  London, 1853.
12mo.

Borde, Andrew (_Romany Rye_, p. 319).—The fyrst boke of the Introduction
of Knowledge.  The which doth teache a man to speake parte of all maner
of Languages, and to knowe the vsage and fashion of al maner of coũtreys.
And for to knowe the most parte of all maner of Coynes of money, ye which
is curraunt in euery region.  Made by Andrew Borde, of Phisicke Doctor.
Dedicated to the right Honorable and gracios lady Mary doughter of our
souerayne lord Kyng Henry the eyght.

(_N_ 4).  Imprented at London in Lothbury ouer agaynste Sainct Margarytes
church by me Wyllyam Copland (_c._ 1547).  4to, 52 leaves (_A-N_ in
4_s_).  Black letter.  Plates.—_Bodl._

Dedication dated: “Fro Moũt pyler [_Montpelier_], the iii. days of Maye,
the yere of our Lorde.  M.CCCCC.xlii.”

Borrow (_Lavengro_, p. 456; _Romany Rye_, p. 281).—Romantic Ballads,
translated from the Danish; and Miscellaneous Pieces; by George Borrow.
Norwich: S. Wilkin, 1826.  8vo, pp. xi, 187.

Among the 146 subscribers’ names given at the end, the following may be
recognised:—

  F(rancis) Arden, Esq., _London_, 5 copies.

  J(ohn) Bowring, Esq., _Hackney_.

  Thomas Campbell, Esq., _London_.

  T(orlough) G. O’Donnahoo, Esq., _London_, 5 copies.

  Dr. (Lewis) Evans.

  R(obert) Hawkes, Esq.

  B. R. Haydon, Esq., _London_.

  Rev. J. (read _P._) Kennedy, _Templemore_, _Tipperary_.

  Mr. R(oger) Kerrison.

  W(illiam) Rackham, Esq.

  Mr. J(ohn) Turner, _London_.

Borrow (_L._, pp. 151, 432).—Targum.  Or Metrical Translations from
Thirty Languages and Dialects.  By George Borrow.  St. Petersburg.
Printed by Schulz and Beneze.  [June] 1835.  8vo, pp. viii, 106.

—The Talisman.  From the Russian of Alexander Pushkin.  With other
pieces.  St. Petersburg.  Printed by Schulz and Beneze.  [August] 1835.
8vo, pp. 14.

Bowring, John (_Lavengro_, p. 146; _Romany Rye_, p. 368).—Specimen of the
Russian Poets: with preliminary remarks and biographical notices.  By
John Bowring, F.L.S.  London: Whittaker, 1821. 12mo, pp. xxii, 240.

Published December, 1820.  Second vol. in 1823.

Boxiana (_Lavengro_, pp. 166–69).—Fights for the Championship, and
celebrated Prize Battles, from the days of Figg and Broughton to the
present time.  By the Editor of _Bell’s Life in London_.  London, 1855.
8vo, pp. iv, 410.  See _Egan_.

Braithwaite, Captain.—The history of the Revolutions in the Empire of
Morocco, upon the death of the late Emperor Muley Ishmael; being a most
exact Journal of what happen’d in those parts in the last and part of the
present year.  With observations natural, moral and political, relating
to that country and people.  Written by Captain Braithwaite, who
accompany’d John Russell, Esq., his Majesty’s Consul General into those
parts, etc.  London, 1829.  8vo, pp. viii, 381.  Map.—_Bodl._

Braithwaite, J. B. (_Lavengro_, pp. 93–96).—Memoirs of Joseph John
Gurney; with selections from his Journal and Correspondence.  Norwich,
1854.  2 vols., 8vo.

Brooke, Miss Charlotte (_Romany Rye_, pp. 278–82).—Reliques of Irish
Poetry: consisting of heroic poems, odes, elegies, and songs, translated
into English verse: with notes explanatory and historical; and the
originals in the Irish character.  Dublin, 1789.  4to, pp. xxvi,
369.—_Bodl._

The source of the Fingalian “thumb” (p. 109), “Dermod (_David_) Odeen”
(Diarmad Mac O’Dhuivne, p. 77), “Conan the Bald” (pp. 79, 106),
“Loughlin” (Lochlin, p. 46).

Budai Ferencz (_Romany Rye_, p. 233).—Magyar Ország Poigári Históriá-járá
való Lexicon.  Nagy-Varad (Gross-Wardein), 1804–5.  3 vols., 8vo.—_B.M._

Carthew, G. A. (_Lavengro_, p. 15).—The Town We Live In.  A Lecture on
the Origin and History of East Dereham.  London, 1857.  12mo.

Croix, François Petis de la (_Lavengro_, p. 55; _Romany Rye_, p.
369).—The History of Genghiscan the Great, first Emperor of the Ancient
Moguls and Tartars, his Life, Advancements, and Conquests, Laws of the
Ancient Moguls and Tartars, and the Geography of the vast countries of
Mogolistan, Turquestan, Capschae, Yagurestan, and the Eastern and Western
Tartary etc.  By the late M. Petis de la Croix, senior Secretary and
Interpreter to the King in the Turkish and Arabick Languages.  London,
1722.  8vo.  Map.

Day, Thomas (_Lavengro_, p. 362).—History of Little Jack.  London,
1788.—The History of Sandford and Merton.  London, 1783–87–89.  3
vols.—_Bodl._

Dictionary of National Biography.  London, 1885–99, vols.  59.
8vo.—_Bodl._

Duncan Campbell (_Romany Rye_, p. 352).—History of the Life and
Adventures of Mr. Duncan Campbell, a gentleman who, though deaf and dumb,
writes down any strangers’ name at first sight, with their future
contingencies of fortune; now living in Exeter Court, over against the
Savoy in the Strand.  [By Daniel Defoe].  London, 1720.  8vo, pp. xix,
320.  Portrait and Plates.

Edda Sæmundar Hinns Fróda.  Edda Rhythmica seu Antiquior, vulgò Sæmundina
dicta.  Hafniæ, sumptibus Soc. Arn. Magn., 1787, 1828.  3 vols.
4to.—_Bodl._

See in vol. ii. (1818): _Quida Sigurdar Fafnisbana_, or, The Song of
Sigurd the Serpent-Slayer (pp. 124–244), including the _Quida
Brynhildar_, or Lay of Brynhild (pp. 189–210).—_Romany Rye_, pp. 279,
281, 358.

Egan, Pierce.—Boxiana; or, Sketches of Ancient and Modern Pugilism, from
the days of the renowned Broughton and Slack, to the Championship of
Cribb.—Boxiana; or, Sketches of Modern Pugilism during the Championship
of Cribb, to Spring’s Challenge to all England.—New Series of Boxiana:
being the only original and Complete Lives of the Boxers.  London,
1821–24–29.  5 vols., 8vo.

English Rogue (The) described, in the Life of Meriton Latroon, a witty
extravagant.  Being a compleat history of the most eminent cheats of both
sexes.  London, 1665–80.  4 vols., 8vo (Reprint).—_Bodl._

Chap. v. of vol. i., pp. 38–53, contains a vocabulary of English cant; in
it are the Borrovian words _pannam_, bread; _harmanbeck_, constable;
_mumpers_, gentile beggars; _ken_, house; _tip_, to give; _Rome-vile_,
London, and the verses given in the _Zincali_, beginning:—

    “Bing out, bien morts, and toure and toure”.

Falconer, Capt. (_Romany Rye_, p. 352).—The Voyages, dangerous Adventures
and imminent escapes of Captain Richard Falconer . . . intermix’d with
the Voyages . . . of T. Randal.  London, 1720.  8vo.

Fortiguerra, Niccolò (_Romany Rye_, p. 71).—Ricciardetto di Niccolò
Carteromaco.  Parigi, 1738.  4to, pp. xxxvi, 420 + 412.—_Bodl._

_Index_: “Despina, principessa di Cafria, figliuola dello Scricca
Imperadore”.

Friar Bacon (_Romany Rye_, p. 157).—The History of Frier Bacon.  London,
1683.  8vo, ll. 12.  Plates.—_Bodl._

—The Three Famous Conjurers, Fryer Bacon, Bongey, and Vandermast.  London
(168–).  8vo, ll. 10.  Plates.—_Bodl._

—The History of Fryer Bacon: The Second Part: Being a most true and exact
Relation of the most famous and merry Exploits of that worthy Gentleman
of Renown, and deep Professor of Astrology, and most expert in the Magick
Art, _MILES WAGNER_; Being once a servant to that famous Conjurer _Fryer
Bacon_, with whom he learned his Art.  As also how he met with _Paccolet_
upon his Wooden Horse.  Lastly, how he by his Art was carried amongst the
Stars in a fiery Chariot, drawn by six Dragons: And how he did eat and
drink with the inhabitants of the World in the Moon.  London (168–).
8vo. ll. 12.  Plates.—_Bodl._

—The Famous Historie of Fryer Bacon.  Containing the wonderfull things
that he did in his life: also the manner of his death; with the lives and
deaths of the two Conjurers, Bungye and Vandermast.  Printed at London . . .
(1615), pp. 62.—In vol. i. of _A Collection of Early Prose Romances_.
_Edited by William J. Thoms_.  London: Pickering, 1828.  3 vols.,
8vo.—_Bodl._

Glyde, John (_Lavengro_, pp. 130–33).—The Norfolk Garland: a Collection
of the superstitious beliefs and practices, proverbs, curious customs,
ballads and songs, of the people of Norfolk.  London (1873).  8vo, pp.
iv, 405.

Gorchestion Beirdd Cymru: Neu Flodau Godidowgrwydd Awen.  O gasgliad Rhys
Jones, o’r Tyddyn Mawr.  [_Beauties of the Bards of Wales_; _or_,
_Flowers of Welsh Poetry_.  _Collected by Rhys Jones of Great Farms_.]
Amwythig (_Shrewsbury_), 1773.  4to.—(_Lavengro_, p. 432.)

Haggart (_Lavengro_, pp. 51–55).—The Life of David Haggart, alias John
Wilson, alias John Morison, alias Barney McCoul, alias John McColgan,
alias Daniel O’ Brian, alias the Switcher.  Written by himself, while
under sentence of death.  Edinburgh, 1821.  12mo, pp. viii, 173.  Port.
“Cant” vocabulary at the end.

Haydon, B. R. (_Lavengro_, p. 223).—Life of Benjamin R. Haydon,
Historical Painter, from his Autobiography and Journals.  By Tom Taylor.
London, 1853.  3 vols., 8vo.

Hickathrift (_Lavengro_, pp. 50 & 63).—The Pleasant History of Thomas
Hickathrift.  [Plate.]  Printed for William Thackeray, and Thomas
Passmore [at the Angel in Duck-lane, 1688].  16mo, ll. 2, pp. 18, l. i.
Plates.—_Bodl._

—The History of Thomas Hickathrift.  Part the First [Second].  Printed
and sold in Aldermary Church Yard, Bow Lane, London (c. 1780).  12mo, pp.
24 + 24.  Plates.—_Bodl._

—The History of Tom Hickathrift.  Part the First [Second].  Manchester:
Printed by A. Swindells, 8 Hanging-bridge.  12mo, pp. 16 + 15 (1825 ?).
Plates.—_Bodl._

Iriarte, Tomás de (_Romany Rye_, p. 354).—Coleccion de Obras en Verso y
Prosa de D. Tomas de Yriarte.  Madrid, 1787.  6 vols., 8vo.

                         LA VÍBORA Y LA SANGUIJUELA.

    “Aunque las dos picamos” (dixo un dia
    La Vibora á la simple Sanguijuela),
    “De tu boca reparo que se fia
    El hombre, y de la mia se rezela.”

    La Chupona responde: “Ya, querida;
    Mas no picamos de la misma suerte:
    Yo, si pico á un enfermo, le doy vida;
    Tú, picando al más sano, le das muerte”.

    Vaya ahora de paso una advertencia:
    Muchos censuran, sí, Lector benigno;
    Pero á fe que hay bastante diferencia
    De un Censor útil á un Censor maligno.

                                                 —_Fábula_, lxvii., vol i.

Keysler, J. G. (_Lavengro_, p. 136; _Romany Rye_, p. 23).—Travels through
Germany, Bohemia, Hungary, Switzerland, Italy and Lorrain.  Translated
from the German.  London, 1756–57.  4 vols., 4to.  Second ed.—_Taylor
Inst._

Kiæmpe Viser (_Lavengro_, pp. 141–45).—Ed. by Anders Sörenson Vedel.
Kjöbenhavn, 1591.  8vo.—“_G. Borrow_.”

—Danmarks Gamle Folkeviser, udgivne af Svend Grundtvig.  Kjöbenhavn,
1853–56–62.  3 vols., sm. fol.

Supersedes the old collections by Vedel, Syv, Nyerup, Rahbeck, etc.

Lesage (_Lavengro_, p. 201).—Histoire de Gil Blas de Santillane.  Paris,
1815.  4 vols., 16mo.

“Je l’invitai à souper avec moi.  ‘_Ah_! _très volontiers_,’
s’écria-t-il.”—_Vol. i._, _ch. II_.

[Leti, Gregorio] (_Romany Rye_, p. 6).—Il Nipotismo di Roma, o vero,
Relatione delle Ragioni che muouono i Pontefici all’ Aggrandimento de’
Nipoti.  (_s. l._), 1667.  2 vols. in 1, 12mo (pp. 932).

—Il Nipotismo di Roma: or, the History of the Popes Nephews.  From the
time of Sixtus IV. anno 1471, to the death of the late Pope, Alexander
VII. anno 1667.  In Two Parts.  Written originally in Italian, and
Englished by W. A., Fellow of the Royal Society.  London, 1673.  12mo
(pp. 343).  Portrait of Alexander VII.

This was the edition used by Mr. Borrow, and purchased by me.

Lhuyd, Edw. (_Lavengro_, p. 68).—Archæologia Britannica, giving some
account additional to what has been hitherto publish’d, of the languages,
histories, and customs of the original inhabitants of Great Britain.
Vol. i.  Glossography.  Oxford, 1707.  Fol.—_Bodl._

Lilly, William (_Lavengro_, pp. 38–39).—A Shorte Introdvction of Grammar,
generally to be vsed in the Kynges Maiesties dominions, for the bryngynge
up of all those that inteade to atteyne the knowlege of the Latine
tongue.  An. Domini 1549.—Brevissima Institutio seu Ratio Grammatices
cognoscendæ, ad omnium puerorum vtilitatem præscripta, quam solam Regia
Maiest. in omnibus scholis profitendam præcipit.  Londini, anno 1549.
[_End_.]  “Londini: apud Reginaldum Wolfium Regiæ Maiestatis in Latinis
Typographum.  Anno Domini M.D.XLIX.”  4to, ll. 36 + 80, 2 parts in
1.—_Bodl._

—A Short Introduction of Grammar, generally to be used: Compiled and set
forth for the bringing up of all those, that intend to attain to the
knowledge of the Latin Tongue.—Brevissima Institvtio, seu Ratio
Grammatices cognoscendæ, ad omnium puerorum utilitatem _per_scripta; Quam
solam Regia Majestas in omnibus scholis docendam præcipit.—Propria Qvæ
Maribvs . . . construed.  London: Longman, _et al._, 1811.  3 parts in 1,
12mo (pp. 77, 140, 80 = 290).—_Bodl._

This last edition of 1811 would be the one the lad Borrow used at East
Dereham in the autumn of that year.

Loyola, Ignatius (_Romany Rye_, p. 351).—Vita Ignatii Loiolæ.  Antverpiæ,
1587, 8vo, and Romæ, 1590, 8vo.—The Life of B. Father Ignatius of Loyola
(_S.L._), 1616.  8vo.—_Also in the_ Flos Sanctorum, ó Libro de las Vidas
de los Santos.  Madrid, 1599–1601.  2 vols., fol.

The Life in all these forms is by Pedro de Rivadeneyra.

Mallet.—Northern Antiquities; or, an historical account of the manners,
customs, religion and laws, language and literature of the ancient
Scandinavians.  London: Bonn, 1859.  8vo, pp. 578.

Matchett.—The Norfolk and Norwich Remembrancer and Vade-Mecum; containing
. . . a Chronological Retrospect of the most Remarkable Events which have
occurred in Norfolk and Norwich from 1701 to 1821 inclusive.  Norwich:
Matchett & Stevenson, 1822.  Sm.  8vo, pp. xxiv, 256.

Moll Flanders (_Lavengro_, p. 194).—The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the
famous Moll Flanders, &c., who was born in Newgate, and during a Life of
continu’d Variety for Threescore Years, besides her Childhood, was Twelve
Year a W (. . .), five times a Wife (. . .), Twelve Year a Thief, Eight
Year a Transported Felon in Virginia, at last grew Rich, liv’d Honest,
and died a Penitent.  Written [by Daniel Defoe] from her own Memorandums
[in 1683].  London, 1721.  8vo, pp. vi, 366.  First ed.

This is Borrow’s “Blessed Mary Flanders”!

Monthly Magazine, The; or, British Register.  London: for Sir Richard
Phillips & Co., 1822–26, vols. liv.–lx.  8vo.—(_Lavengro_, pp. 186–87.)

Murray (_Lavengro_, p. 139).—See in Sir Walter Scott’s _Minstrelsy of the
Scottish Border_, Kelso, 1802.  2 vols., 8vo.—“The Song of the Outlaw
Murray” (vol. i., pp. 5 and ff.).

Muses’ Library (_Romany Rye_, p. 318).—Historical and Poetical Medley;
or, Muses’ Library, being a choice and faithful Collection of the best
English Poetry from the times of Edward the Confessor to the reign of
King James 1st, with the lives and characters of the known writers, etc.
London, 1738.  8vo.—_Bodl._

(Newgate).—The New Newgate Calendar; or, Modern Criminal Chronology,
comprehending the most remarkable cases between 1796 and 1826.  London:
Robins & Co., 1826.  3 vols., 8vo.  Portrait

—The Chronicles of Crime; or, The New Newgate Calendar.  [By Camden
Pelham.]  London, 1841.  2 vols., 8vo (pp. 1228).  Plates.

Newgate Lives and Trials (_Lavengro_, p. 204).—Celebrated Trials and
Remarkable Cases of Criminal Jurisprudence, from the earliest records to
the year 1825.  London: Knight & Lacey, 1825.  6 vols., 8vo.  Plates.
Compiled and edited by Geo. Borrow.

Olaus Magnus.—De Gentibus Septentrionalibus Historia.  Ambergæ, 1599.
18mo.—_Taylor Inst._

Olaus Wormius.—(Runer) Sive Danica Literatura Antiquissima vulgo Gothica
dicta.  Luci reddita operâ Olai Wormii, D. M.  Hafniæ, anno M.DC.XXXVI.
4to.

—Literatura Runica.  Hafniæ, 1651.  4to.

O’Reilly, Edward.—A Chronological Account of nearly four hundred Irish
writers, down to 1750, with catalogue of their works.  Dublin, 1820.
4to.—“_G. Borrow_.”

Owlenglass (_Lavengro_, p. 225).—Von Vlenspiegel eins bauren sun des
lands Braunschweick / wie er sein leben volbracht hat / gar mit seltzamen
sachen.—Gedruckt zu Erffurdt durch Melcher Sachssen ynn der Archen Noe.
M.D.XXXiij (1533).  4to.  A-V in 4s & X 3.  Plates.—_Bodl._

—Wunderliche und seltsame Historie Tillen Eulenspiegels, eines Bauern
Sohn, aus dem Lande zu Braunschweig gebürtig.  Welche aus
Niedersächsischer Sprache ins Hochdeutsche übersetzt, und sehr kurzweilig
zu lesen.  Aus verlangen sehr vieler guten Freunde aufs neue wieder
aufgelegt.—Gedruckt in diesem Jahre.  Frankfurth a. d. O., bei Trowitzsch
und Sohn.  (_S.A._).  A-K in 8s.  8vo.  Plates.—_Borrow’s copy_.

—The German Rogue; or, the Life and Merry Adventures, Cheats, Stratagems,
and Contrivances of Tiel Eulespiegle.  Made English from the High-Dutch.
London, 1720.  8vo, ll. 2, pp. 111.—_Bodl._

Parny (_Romany Rye_, pp. 344, 357).—Guerre des Dieux, anciens et
modernes: poëme en dix chants.  Seconde édition.  Paris: Didot, an vii
(1798).  8vo, pp. 204.

Patten, R.—The History of the late Rebellion, with Original Papers and
Characters of the principal Noblemen and Gentlemen concern’d in it.  By
the Rev. Mr. Robert Patten, formerly Chaplain to Mr. Foster.  Second
edition, with large additions.  London, 1717.  8vo.—_Bodl._

Phillips, Sir Richard (_Lavengro_, p. 205).—The Proximate Causes of
Material Phenomena, and the true principles of universal causation
considered.  Second edition.  London, 1821. 8vo.—_Bodl._

—(_Lavengro_, p. 254.)—Ueber die nächsten Ursachen der materiellen
Erscheinungen des Universums.  Von Sir Richard Philipps (_sic_).  Nach
dem Englischen bearbeitet von General v. Theobald und Prof. Dr. Lebret.
Stuttgart, 1826.  8vo, pp. xxxii, 429.

—Four Dialogues between an Oxford Tutor and a Disciple of the
Common-sense Philosophy, relative to the proximate causes of material
phenomena.  London, 1824.  8vo.—_Bodl._

See _Lavengro_: “Oxford” principles (pp. 190, 216), theory (p. 215),
politics (p. 228), Oxford-like manner (pp. 215, 216), “Oxford” Review
(pp. 190, 215).

Piers Ploughman (_Romany Rye_, p. 315).—The Vision and the Creed of Piers
Ploughman.  With notes and a glossary by Thomas Wright.  London:
Pickering, 1842.  2 vols., sm.  8vo.

Pocahontas (_Romany Rye_, p. 352).—The Indian Princess; or, the Story of
Pocahontas.  By Edward Eggleston and Lillie Eggleston Seelye.  London
(1880?).  12mo, pp. 310.

—American Statesmen.  John Randolph.  By Henry Adams.  Boston, 1884.
12mo, pp. vi, 313.

Psalmboek, Hebreus en Nederlants, door Leusden.  Amsterdam, 1666.  18mo.
“_George Borrow ejus liber_, 1821.”—(_Lavengro_, pp. 151, 160.)

Pulci (_Lavengro_, p. 497; _Romany Rye_, pp. 69, 316).—Morgante Maggiore
di Lvigi Pvlci Firentino, etc.  Venetia, 1546.  4to, ll. 4, ff.
199.—_Bodl._

—Il Morgante Maggiore, di Luigi Pulci.  Londra (_Livorno_), 1768.  3
vols., 16mo.

Records of the West Norfolk Militia: _I_. Original Enrollment Book,
1787–1815.  _II_. Regimental Order Book, 1812–15.  2 vols.,
fol.—_Mousehold Barracks_, _Norwich_.

Richmond, Rev. Legh (_Lavengro_, pp. 189, 197, 202).—The Dairyman’s
Daughter [_i.e._, Elizabeth Wallbridge]: An authentic narrative.  By a
clergyman of the Church of England.  London, 1810, 1817, 1819, 1824, etc.

—Annals of the Poor.  By the Rev. Legh Richmond, M.A., late Rector of
Turvey, Bedfordshire.  London: The Religious Tract Society, 1842.  24mo,
pp. 240.

  1.  _The Dairyman’s Daughter_, pp. 101.

  2.  The <DW64> Servant.

  3.  The Young Cottager.

  4.  The Cottage Conversation.

  5.  A Visit to the Infirmary.

One of the first of the “Evangelicals” (_Romany Rye_, p. 37).

(Sagas).—Fornmanna Sögur.  Kaupmannahafn, 1825–37.  12 vols.,
8vo.—_Bodl._

“_Bui hin Digri_,” vol. x., p. 258.

—Fornaldar Sögur Nordlanda eftir gömlum handritum, utgefnar af C. C.
Rafn.  Kaupm., 1829–30.  3 vols., 8vo.—“_G. Borrow_.”

See also _Snorro_ and _Wilkina_.

Saxonis Grammatici Historia Danica.  S. J. Stephanus recog. notisque
illustravit.  Sorae, 1644–45.  2 vols., fol.  Plates.—“_G. H. Borrow_.”

—Ed. P. E. Müller.  Havniæ, 1839–58.  2 vols., roy. 8vo.—_Bodl._

Smith, Capt. Alex.—A Compleat History of the Lives and Robberies of the
most notorious Highwaymen, Footpads, Shoplifts, and Cheats, of both
sexes, about London and Great Britain, for above an hundred years past.
London, 1719.  12mo.—_Library of G. B._

Snorro Sturleson (_Lavengro_, pp. 12, 46).—Heims Kringla / eller Snorre
Sturlusons Nordländske Konunga Sagor.  Sive Historiæ Regum
Septentrionalium, â Snorrone Sturlonide, ante secula quinque, patrio
sermone antiquo conscriptæ, quas . . . illustravit Iohann Peringskiöld.
Stockholmiæ, 1697.  2 vols., fol.—_Bodl._

—Snorre Sturlesons Norske Kongers Sagaer.  Oversatte [paa Danske] af
Jacob Aal.  Christiania, 1838–39.  3 parts in 1, fol.—_Bodl._

“_Bui hin Digri_,” part 1, p. 138.

—Snorre Sturlesøns Norake Kongers Chronica.  Vdaat paa Danske / aff H.
Peder Claussøn.  Kiöbenhavn, 1633.  4to, ll. 12, pp. 858, ll. 11.

“_Bui hin Digri_,” p. 136.

“Torstein Midlang hug til Boo tvert ofver Ansictet / oc hog Mundstycket
bort med all Hagen.  Boo sagde / ugierne skulle de Danske Möer nu kysse
mig / om jeg kommer nogen tid hiem igien / og hand hug til Torstein igien
/ uden paa siden / og hug hannem i to stycker.  Da kom Sigmund Brestesøn
/ en Færöisk Mand / oc hug baade Hænder aff Boo i Handledit / saa at de
fulde met Sverdet ned paa Skibet.  Boo stack Armstumpene i baandene paa
to kister / som stode ved Borde / fulde aff Guld oc Sölff / som hand
röfvit havde / oc raabte hojt / ‘_For borde_ / _for borde_ / _alle Bois
Tienere_’ / oc hand störte sig ofver borde met Kisterne.  Der efter
sprunge mange aff hans mend for borde / oc mange blefve slagne i Skibet /
thi ey var det got om Fred at bede.”

Spira, Francis (_Romany Rye_, p. 352).—FRANCISCI SPIERÆ, qvi, qvod
svsceptam semel Euãgelice ueritatis professionë abnegasset, damnassetq;
in horrendam incidit desperationem, HISTORIA, à quatuor summis uiris,
summa fide conscripta: cum clariss. uirorum Præfationibus, Cælij
S(ecundi) C(urionis), & Io. Caluini, & Petri Pauli Vergerij APOLOGIA, in
quibus multa hoc tempore scitu digna grauissimè tractantur.  Accessit
quoq; Martini Borrhai, de usu, quem Spieræ tum exemplum, tum doctrina
afferat, IUDICIUM.  2. Petri 2 (etc.)  Basileæ, M.D.L. (1550).  16mo, ll.
7, pp. 191, ll. 4.—_Bodl._

—A Relation of the Fearfvl Estate of Francis Spira, in the year 1548.
Compiled by Natth.  Bacon, Esq.  London, 1649.  16mo, pp. 80.—_Bodl._

Steven, William (_Lavengro_, p. 46).—The History of the High School of
Edinburgh.  Edinburgh, 1849.  8vo, pp. xx, 367 + 220.  Plates.

Taylor, William (_Lavengro_, p. 146).—Historical Survey of German Poetry,
interspersed with various translations.  London, 1830.  3 vols., 8vo.

—A Memoir of the Life and Writings of the late William Taylor of Norwich,
containing his correspondence with Robert Southey.  Compiled and edited
by J. W. Robberds.  London, 1843.  2 vols., 8vo.

“With the Author’s Compliments to George Borrow, Esq.”

Thurtell, John (_Lavengro_, pp. 157–8, 171; _Romany Rye_, pp.
268–71).—“Observer:” London, 10th January, 1824.  With woodcuts.—“Norwich
Mercury:” 8th, 15th, 22nd November, 1823; 3rd, 10th, 17th January,
1824.—“Monthly Magazine:” 1st December, 1823, p. 472; 1st February, 1824,
p. 92.

—The Trial of John Thurtell and Joseph Hunt, for the Murder of Mr.
William Weare, in Gill’s Hill Lane, Herts, before Mr. Justice Park, on
Tuesday, the 6th, and Wednesday, the 7th January, 1824; with the Prayer,
and the Condemned Sermon, that was preached before the unhappy Culprits;
also, full particulars of the Execution.  Embellished with six engraved
views, taken expressly for this edition by Mr. Calvert.  London: Hodgson
& Co., 1824.  8vo, pp. 91.  Plates.

—Pierce Egan’s Account of the Trial of John Thurtell and Joseph Hunt;
with an Appendix, disclosing some extraordinary facts, exclusively in the
possession of the Editor, with Portraits, and many other illustrative
Engravings.  London: Knight & Lacey, 1824.  8vo, pp. 105.  Plates.

—The Fatal Effects of Gambling exemplified in the Murder of Wm. Weare,
and the Trial and Fate of John Thurtell, the Murderer, and his
Accomplices; with Biographical Sketches of the Parties concerned, etc.
London: Thomas Kelly, 1824.  8vo, pp. xxii, 512.

Thurtell, John.—Celebrated Trials, etc.  London, 1825.  Vol. vi, p. 534.
Article by Mr. Borrow.

Till Eulenspiegel (_Lavengro_, p. 225).—See _Owlenglass_.

Vámbéry, Hermann (_Romany Rye_, p. 225).—Der Ursprung der Magyaren.  Eine
Ethnologische Studie.  Leipzig, 1882.  8vo, pp. xii, 587.—_Taylor Inst._

Villotte, Jacobus (_Lavengro_, p. 175; _Romany Rye_, p. 92).—Dictionarium
Novum Latino-Armenium ex præcipuis Armeniæ Linguæ Scriptoribus
concinnatum: Accedit Tabula Regum et Patriarcharum utriusque Armeniæ.
Romæ, 1714.  Thick fol.—_Bodl._

The Latin-Armenian Dictionary, with a Grammar prefixed, from which Borrow
drew the Haïkian words and forms displayed in _Lavengro_ and _Romany
Rye_, such as _kini_, wine; _hatz_, bread; _dzow_, sea; the verbs
_hntal_, _siriel_, etc.

Wace (_Romany Rye_, p. 320).—Le Roman de Rou et des Ducs de Normandie,
par Robert Wace, poète normand du xiie siècle; publié pour la première
fois par F. Pluquet.  Rouen, 1827.  2 vols., 8vo.

Walker, J. C. (_Lavengro_, p. 233).—Historical Memoirs of the Irish
Bards.  Dublin, 1786.  4to.—_Bodl._

Wayland Smith.—A Dissertation on a Tradition of the Middle Ages.  From
the French of G. B. Depping and Francisque Michel.  London, 1847.  12mo,
pp. 163.

Mr. Borrow’s “Völundr” or “Velint”.—_Lavengro_, p. 444.

Webb, Alfred.—Compendium of Irish Biography.  Dublin, 1878.  8vo.—_Bodl._

Weir, George (_Romany Rye_, p. 211).—Historical and Descriptive Sketches
of the Town and Soke of Horncastle, in the County of Lincoln, and of
several places adjacent.  London, 1820.  Large 8vo, pp. vi, 119.  Plates
and Map.

Wells, J. S. (_Lavengro_, p. 169).—The Norwich Minstrel; containing
several hundred of the most admired and approved Songs, interspersed with
select and original Poetry.  Compiled by J. S. Wells.  Norwich, 1831.
12mo, pp. iv, 251.

White, Wm.—History, Gazetteer, and Directory of Norfolk, and the City and
County of the City of Norwich.  Sheffield, 1854.  8vo, pp. 881.

—History, Gazetteer, and Directory of Suffolk, etc.  Sheffield, 1844.
8vo, pp. 756.

—Ed. 1855.  8vo, pp. 824.

Wight Wallace (_Lavengro_, p. 63).—The Life and Acts of the most famous
and valiant Champion, Syr William Wallace, Knight of Ellerslie:
Maintainer of ye Liberty of Schottland.  [Written by Blind Harry in the
year 1361.]  Printed at Edinburgh by Andrew Hart, 1630.  16mo, pp. 341,
ll. 2.  Black Letter.—_Bodl._

P. 341, after FINIS:—

    “Thus endeth _William Wallace_ wight,
    Behinde him left not such a Knight
    Of worthinesse and deed of hand;
    From thraldom thrice he fred this land”.

—The Life and Acts of Sir William Wallace, of Ellerslie.  By Henry the
Minstrel.  (Published from a MS. of 1488 with Notes by Dr. Jamieson.)
Edinburgh, 1820.  4to, pp. xx, 444.—_Bodl._

This rhymed “Story-book of Wight Wallace” is in twelve parts or books.

Wilkina Saga.—Sagan om Didrik af Bern.  Efter Svenska Handskrifter
utgifven af Gunnar Olof Hyltén-Cavallius.  Vol. v. af _Samlingar utgifna
af Svenska Fornskrift-Sällskapet_.  Stockholm, 1850.  8vo, pp. xlv,
487.—_Bodl._

Stories of Sigurd (Siegfrid), Gunnar (Gunther), Brynhilda (Brunhilt).

Worm, J.—Forsøg til et Lexicon over Danske, Norske, og Islandske Lærde
Mænd.  Helsingöer, 1771–84.  3 vols., 8vo.—“G. Borrow.”

Wynn, Ellis (_Lavengro_, pp. 404–5).—Gweledigaethau y Bardd Cwsg: yn
Cynnws I. Gweledigaeth Cwrs y Byd.  II. Gweledigaeth Angai.  III.
Gweledigaeth Uffern.  Gan Ellis Wynn.  Caerfyrddin, 1811.  12mo, pp. 77.

—The Sleeping Bard; or Visions of the World, Death, and Hell.  By Elis
Wyn.  Translated from the Cambrian British by George Borrow.  London,
1860.  8vo, pp. vii, 128.

                                                              W. I. KNAPP.

HIGH ST., OXFORD,
      _November_, 1899

                                * * * * *

                                * * * * *

  _Printed by Hasell_, _Watson & Viney_, _Ld._, _London and Aylesbury_.




FOOTNOTES.


{0a}  _MS._, “’49”.

{0b}  _MS._, “execrated by every unmanly scoundrel, every sycophantic
lacquey, and _every political and religious renegade_ in Britain”.

{24}  _Cf. L’Inferno_, xxvii., 25.

{42}  The apothecary.

{46a}  _MS._, see _Life_, i., 34, _n_.

{46b}  _Ibid_.

{284}  Tipperary.

{311a}  _MS._, “Canning” (1827).

{311b}  Viscount Goderich.

{311c}  _MS._, “Canning” (1827).

{311d}  _MS._, “Canning” (1827).

{312a}  _MS._, “who eventually presented him with a bishopric, had
espoused,” etc.

{312b}  _MS._, “He is a small landed proprietor who eats,” etc.

{312c}  _MS._, “the _Despatch_, of course”.

{312d}  The Spanish Revolution of ’54–’56, made by O’Donnell.

{313}  _MS._ (corrected):—

    Un Erajái
    Sinába chibando an sermón;
    Y lle falta un balichó
    Al chindomá de aquel gáo;
    Y chanéla que los calés
    Lo habían nicobáo;
    Y penelá ’l erajái:
    “Chaboró!
    Guíllate á tu quer,
    Y nicobéla la pirí
    Que teréla ’l balichó,
    Y chibéla andró
    Una lima de tun chaborí,
    Chaborí,
    Una lima de tun chaborí.”

See also _Lavo-Lil_, p. 200.

{316a} Canto I, st. 53.

{316b}  St. 57.

{318}  An obscene oath.

{319}  See _Muses’ Library_, pp. 86, 87.  London, 1738.  [Better, the
original ed. (1547).  _See Notes_.]

{320}  Genteel with them seems to be synonymous with Gentile and Gentoo;
if so, the manner in which it has been applied for ages ceases to
surprise, for genteel is heathenish.  Ideas of barbaric pearl and gold,
glittering armour, plumes, tortures, blood-shedding, and lust, should
always be connected with it.  Wace, in his grand Norman poem, calls the
Baron Genteel:—

    “La furent li gentil Baron,” etc.

And he certainly could not have applied the word better than to the
strong Norman thief, armed cap-a-pie without one particle of ruth or
generosity; for a person to be a pink of gentility, that is heathenism,
should have no such feelings; and, indeed, the admirers of gentility
seldom or never associate any such feelings with it.  It was from the
Norman, the worst of all robbers and miscreants, who built strong
castles, garrisoned them with devils, and tore out poor wretches’ eyes,
as the Saxon Chronicle says, that the English got their detestable word
genteel.  What could ever have made the English such admirers of
gentility, it would be difficult to say; for, during three hundred years,
they suffered enough by it.  Their genteel Norman landlords were their
scourgers, their torturers, the plunderers of their homes, the
dishonourers of their wives, and the deflowers of their daughters.
Perhaps after all, fear is at the root of the English veneration for
gentility.

{323}  Gentle and gentlemanly may be derived from the same root as
genteel; but nothing can be more distinct from the mere genteel, than the
ideas which enlightened minds associate with these words.  Gentle and
gentlemanly mean something kind and genial; genteel, that which is
glittering or gaudy.  A person can be a gentleman in rags, but nobody can
be genteel.

{342}  The writer has been checked in print by the Scotch with being a
Norfolk man.  Surely, surely, these latter times have not been exactly
the ones in which it was expedient for Scotchmen to check the children of
any county in England with the place of their birth, more especially
those who have had the honour of being born in Norfolk—times in which
British fleets, commanded by Scotchmen, have returned laden with anything
but laurels from foreign shores.  It would have been well for Britain had
she had the old Norfolk man to despatch to the Baltic or the black Sea,
lately, instead of Scotch admirals.

{364}  As the present work will come out in the midst of a vehement
political contest, people may be led to suppose that the above was
written expressly for the time.  The writer therefore begs to state that
it was written in the year 1854.  He cannot help adding that he is
neither Whig, Tory, nor Radical, and cares not a straw what party governs
England, provided it is governed well.  But he has no hopes of good
government from the Whigs.  It is true that amongst them there is one
very great man, Lord Palmerston, who is indeed the sword and buckler, the
chariots and the horses of the party; but it is impossible for his
lordship to govern well with such colleagues as he has—colleagues which
have been forced upon him by family influence, and who are continually
pestering him into measures anything but conducive to the country’s
honour and interest.  If Palmerston would govern well, he must get rid of
them; but from that step, with all his courage and all his greatness, he
will shrink.  Yet how proper and easy a step it would be!  He could
easily get better, but scarcely worse, associates.  They appear to have
one object in view and only one—jobbery.  It was chiefly owing to a most
flagitious piece of jobbery, which one of his lordship’s principal
colleagues sanctioned and promoted, that his lordship experienced his
late parliamentary disasters.

{369}  A fact.

{372a}  _MS._ “Aberdeen.”

{372b}  _MS._ “Aberdeen.”

{383}  Like _Ingilis_ in Turkish, for English; _Beritania_ (England) in
Hawaiian, for Britannia.

{386a}  _Zincali_, 1843, second ed., vol. ii., p. 146.*

{386b}  “I think I’ll go there,” p. 301.  “He is about to quit his native
land on a grand philological expedition,” p. 303.




***