← catalogue

The Romany Rye

by George Borrow · English · Gutenberg #422 · 908,120 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Romany Rye
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Romany Rye

Author: George Borrow


        
Release date: February 1, 1996 [eBook #422]
                Most recently updated: April 5, 2007

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/422

Credits: Transcribed from the 1907 J. M. Dent Edition by David Price


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROMANY RYE ***



Transcribed from the 1907 J. M. Dent Edition by David Price, email
ccx074@coventry.ac.uk





THE ROMANY RYE


CHAPTER I


The Making of the Linch-pin--The Sound Sleeper--Breakfast--The
Postillion's Departure.

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 axletree--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 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 my anvil, and began to beat it with my hammer, according to
the rules of my art.  The dingle resounded with my strokes.  Belle sat
still, and occasionally smiled, but suddenly started up, and retreated
towards her encampment, on a spark which I purposely sent in her
direction alighting on her knee.  I found the making of a linch-pin no
easy matter; it was, however, less difficult than the fabrication of a
pony-shoe; my work, indeed, was much facilitated by my having another pin
to look at.  In about three-quarters of an hour I had succeeded tolerably
well, and had produced a linch-pin which I thought would serve.  During
all this time, notwithstanding the noise which I was making, the
postillion never showed his face.  His non-appearance at first alarmed
me: I was afraid he might be dead, but, on looking into the tent, I found
him still buried in the soundest sleep.  "He must surely be descended
from one of the seven sleepers," said I, 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 gentle-woman," 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
wheel-wright'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 gentle-woman 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


The Man in Black--The Emperor of Germany--Nepotism--Donna
Olympia--Omnipotence--Camillo Astalli--The Five Propositions.

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 threescore and ten mules were scarcely
sufficient to convey the plunder of one of them to Palestrina."  He
added, however, that it was probable that Christendom fared better whilst
the popes were thus independent, as it was less sucked, whereas before
and after that period it was sucked by hundreds instead of tens, by the
cardinals and all their relations, instead of by the pope and his nephews
only.

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


Necessity of Religion--The Great Indian One--Image-worship--Shakespeare--The
Pat Answer--Krishna--Amen.

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 would 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, Zingara, 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 Guerin, who had asked him whether it was easier for Christ to
have been mistaken in his Gospel, than for the Pope to be mistaken in his
decrees?"

"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 negro barbarians of High Barbary could give
you a lesson on that point; they have their fetish images, to which they
look for help in their afflictions; they have likewise a high priest,
whom they call--"

"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 Protestants 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 Proposal--The Scotch Novel--Latitude--Miracles--Pestilent
Heretics--Old Fraser--Wonderful Texts--No Armenian.

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
would 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 'tis 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, 'Carajo.'  Others would pass for Germans; he! he!
the idea of any one wishing to pass for a German! but what has done us
more service than anything else in these regions--I mean amidst the
middle classes--has been the novel, the Scotch novel.  The good folks,
since they have read the novels, have become Jacobites; and, because all
the Jacobs were Papists, the good folks must become Papists also, or, at
least, papistically inclined.  The very Scotch Presbyterians, since they
have read the novels, are become all but Papists; I speak advisedly,
having lately been amongst them.  There's a trumpery bit of a half papist
sect, called the Scotch Episcopalian Church, which lay dormant and nearly
forgotten for upwards of a hundred years, which has of late got
wonderfully into fashion in Scotland, because, forsooth, some of the long-
haired gentry of the novels were said to belong to it, such as Montrose
and Dundee; and to this the Presbyterians are going over in throngs,
traducing and vilifying their own forefathers, or denying them
altogether, and calling themselves descendants of--ho! ho! ho!--Scottish
Cavaliers!!!  I have heard them myself repeating snatches of Jacobite
ditties about 'Bonnie Dundee,' and--

   "'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 Papist--and who more thorough-going than
myself?--cares nothing for his country; and why should he? he belongs to
a system, and not to a country."

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

"Rome is a very sensible old body," said the man in black, "and little
cares what her children say, provided they do her bidding.  She knows
several things, and amongst others, that no servants work so hard and
faithfully as those who curse their masters at every stroke they do.  She
was not fool enough to be angry with the Miquelets of Alba, who renounced
her, and called her 'puta' all the time they were cutting the throats of
the Netherlanders.  Now, if she allowed her faithful soldiers the
latitude of renouncing her, and calling her 'puta' in the market-place,
think not she is so unreasonable as to object to her faithful priests
occasionally calling her 'puta' in the dingle."

"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 pope 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.'"

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, _oime_, 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
for 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 ---; 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 bogtrotters; 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
individuals, but now I begin to believe firmly; what wonderful texts 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


Fresh Arrivals--Pitching the Tent--Certificated Wife--High-flying
Notions.

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 out
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
timber 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 it is in good company--and I have
kept good company in my time--that suspicion is king's evidence of a
narrow and uncultivated mind; on which account I am suspicious of nobody,
not even of my own husband, whom some people would think I have a right
to be suspicious of, seeing that on his account I once refused a lord;
but ask him whether I am suspicious of him, and whether I seek to keep
him close tied to my apron-string; he will tell you nothing of the kind;
but that, on the contrary, I always allows him an agreeable latitude,
permitting him to go where he pleases, and to converse with any one to
whose manner of speaking he may take a fancy.  But I have had the
advantage of keeping good company, and therefore--"

"Meklis," 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."

"Meklis," said Mrs. Petulengro; "I use your own word, madam, which is
Romany: for my own part, I am not fond of using Romany words, unless I
can hope to pass them off for French, which I cannot in the present
company.  I heartily wish that there was no such language, and do my best
to keep it away from my children, lest the frequent use of it should
altogether confirm them in low and vulgar habits.  I have four children,
madam, but--"

"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


The Promised Visit--Roman Fashion--Wizard and Witch--Catching at
Words--The Two Females--Dressing of Hair--The New Roads--Belle's Altered
Appearance--Herself Again.

About mid-day 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 whalebone riding-whip,
with a red lash, and an immense silver knob.  Upon his head was a hat
with a high peak, somewhat of the kind which the Spaniards call _calane_,
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 curtsey.  Belle, who had flung
her hair back over her shoulders, returned their salutations by bending
her head, and after slightly glancing at Mr. Petulengro, fixed her large
blue eyes full upon his wife.  Both these females were very handsome--but
how unlike!  Belle fair, with blue eyes and flaxen hair; Mrs. Petulengro
with olive complexion, eyes black, and hair dark--as dark as could be.
Belle, in demeanour calm and proud; the gypsy graceful, but full of
movement and agitation.  And then how different were those two in
stature!  The head of the Romany rawnie scarcely ascended to the breast
of Isopel Berners.  I could see that Mrs. Petulengro gazed on Belle with
unmixed admiration; so did her husband.  "Well," said the latter, "one
thing I will say, which is, that there is only one on earth worthy to
stand up in front of this she, and that is the beauty of the world, as
far as man flesh is concerned, Tawno Chikno; what a pity he did not come
down!"

"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 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 is 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 in 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


The Festival--The Gypsy Song--Piramus of Rome--The Scotchman--Gypsy
Names.

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 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 gypsy
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 horsworth 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 a baulo.

   And then we kairs the drab opre,
   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 opre 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, 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 ke 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 pre 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 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; 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 a hundred and three, 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; perhaps you got them from the
Papists, in the times of Popery; but where did you get such a name as
Piramus, a name of Grecian romance?  Then some of them appear to be
Slavonian; for example, Mikailia and Pakomovna.  I don't know much of
Slavonian; but--"

"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


The Church--The Aristocratical Pew--Days of Yore--The Clergyman--"In What
Would a Man be Profited?"

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.

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 defts were in the habit of taking
their pleasure.  We proceeded for upwards of a mile, by footpaths through
meadows and corn-fields; we crossed various stiles; at last, passing over
one, we found ourselves in a road, wending along which for a considerable
distance, we at last came in sight of a church, the bells of which had
been tolling distinctly in our ears for some time; before, however, we
reached the church-yard, 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.

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
scandalized 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


Return from Church--The Cuckoo and Gypsy--Spiritual Discourse.

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."

"Can they 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 cripple, and
is married to the beauty of the world, so she may be expected to be
jealous--though he would not part with her for a duchess, no more than I
would part with my rawnie, nor any other chal with his."

"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 says 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


Sunday Evening--Ursula--Action at Law--Meridiana--Married Already.

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 thornbush.  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 do 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 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 militia-men, 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,' says the local officer, 'I says you did,' looking down all the
time.  'You are a liar,' says I, and forthwith I breaks his head with the
stick which I holds behind me, and which my coko has conveyed privily
into my hand."

"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 a 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
I 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 Riciardetto.
Riciardetto, 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 Riciardetto, 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


Ursula's Tale--The Patteran--The Deep Water--Second Husband.

"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 gingerbread, in which
there was a dainty saw which could cut through iron.  I then took on
wonderfully, turned my eyes inside out, fell down in a seeming fit, and
was carried out of the prison.  That same night my husband sawed his
irons off, cut through the bars of his window, and dropping down a height
of fifty feet, lighted on his legs, and came and joined me on a heath
where I was camped alone.  We were just getting things ready to be off,
when we heard people coming, and sure enough they were runners after my
husband, Launcelot Lovell; for his escape had been discovered within a
quarter of an hour after he had got away.  My husband, without bidding me
farewell, set off at full speed, and they after him, but they could not
take him, and so they came back and took me, and shook me, and threatened
me, and had me before the poknees, 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 balked.  She told me the word for
leaf was patteran, which our people use now for trail, having forgotten
the true meaning.  She said that the trail was called patteran, because
the gypsies of old were in the habit of making the marks with the leaves
and branches of trees, placed in a certain manner.  She said that nobody
knew it but herself, who was one of the old sort, and begged me never to
tell the word to any one but him I should marry; and to be particularly
cautious never to let you know it, whom she hated.  Well, brother,
perhaps I have done wrong to tell you; but, as I said before, I likes
you, and am always ready to do your pleasure in words and conversation;
my mother, moreover, is dead and gone, and, poor thing, will never know
anything about the matter.  So, when I married, I told my husband about
the patteran, and we were in the habit of making our private 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 cripple, brother, the only cripple amongst the Roman people: so
she is allowed to do and say as she pleases.  Moreover, her husband does
not think fit to kick or beat her, though it is my opinion she would like
him all the better if he were occasionally to do so, and threaten to bury
her alive; at any rate, she would treat him better, and respect him
more."

"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
Mumper's dingle, and travelling about with you; you will have, brother,
more difficulty to manage her, than Jasper has to manage my sister
Pakomovna.  I should have mentioned her before, only I wanted to know
what you had to say to me; and when we got into discourse, I forgot her.
I say, brother, let me tell you your dukkerin, with respect to her, you
will never--"

"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, cripples, and lubbenys are ever
married in a church: we took each other's words.  Brother, I have been
with you near three hours beneath this hedge.  I will go to my husband."

"Does he know that you are here?"

"He does, brother."

"And is he satisfied?"

"Satisfied! of course.  Lor', you gorgies!  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


The Dingle at Night--The Two Sides of the Question--Roman Females--Filling
the Kettle--The Dream--The Tall Figure.

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 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 procuring 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 a distinct 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 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 that 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


Visit to the Landlord--His Mortifications--Hunter and his
Clan--Resolution.

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


Preparations for the Fair--The Last Lesson--The Verb Siriel.

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 conju

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/422